Malfunction
by Jet44
Summary: Tracking anklets aren't perfect. For Neal Caffrey, a malfunctioning anklet becomes a nightmare. After nearly dying in Riker's, Neal has to put his life and soul in Peter's hands to recover from blows mental, emotional, and physical. Deep friendship with a hurt Neal and comforting Peter. No permanent damage is done to our Neal!
1. Malfunction

_WARNINGS: Violence, prisoner abuse, profanity, childhood injury/trauma. Far more violent than my previous WC fics - I don't leave Neal with any permanent damage, but I do beat the hell out of him physically and emotionally._

_You've probably noticed, if you follow my stories, that I write a more idealized version of Neal, Peter, and their friendship. Nowhere are you going to see that more than here. I recently watched The Normal Heart (If you want Matt Bomer to break your heart into a million pieces - wow. He's a world-class actor along with being devastatingly handsome, and Will. Break. Your. Heart.)._

_The open, passionate emotion of that movie is going to be with me for a while when I write these two. I don't read the Neal/Peter relationship as sexual, but I do read it as containing a hell of a lot of love._

_I guess I'd put this story in the spectrum of what those two characters would be if they were in a world where they didn't have to mask and protect themselves so much._

* * *

><p>Near as Neal could tell, the NYPD officer was aiming directly at his hot apple cider.<p>

"Hey now," protested Neal. "This isn't very much in the fall spirit."

Of course, the apple cider happened to be positioned directly in front of his chest, so a direct hit could do a little more than ruin his drink. It might even ruin his suit.

Neal gave the officer a lighthearted smile as he raised his hands. "What would you like me to do with the cup?"

"DROP IT!"

Neal grimaced. "Just so you know, it's full. Don't startle and pull that trigger when it hits the ground, okay?"

"DROP IT!"

Neal dropped it, and the officer did startle a bit when the splash came his way like a warm, spicy mud puddle kicked up by a passing car.

A few more officers soon joined the party, and his perfectly nice fall day turned into a perfectly lousy one handcuffed in the back of an NYPD cruiser. His questions had been answered with knees and elbows to sensitive body parts, so he broached things carefully with the officer driving the car.

"Officer, is it all right if I talk to you?"

"Fine." It was an unenthusiastic grunt, but better than _shut up_.

"I'm not trying to be a pain, I swear. But - I honestly don't know why I've been arrested."

The officer snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Would you humor me?" asked Neal. "Please? I'm not trying to get out of anything, and I won't argue with you."

A few minutes later there was a resigned sigh. "You wear an advanced GPS tracking anklet. You're a felon who escaped a maximum security prison and followed that by taking a header out of some judge's office and running for it."

The officer seemed to think that was the only explanation needed.

"All compliments to my exploits aside - how does that lead to me being in cuffs right now?" asked Neal.

"Did you think you could tamper with your anklet and not trigger a citywide BOLO?"

Neal frowned. He used his left foot to pull up the cuff of his pants, and peered at the anklet. It was completely black. Not even the blinking red alarm light was on. And Peter was probably having a fit.

He'd promised the officer he wouldn't argue, and protestations of innocence would get him nowhere by sundown. He closed his eyes and thought. He needed to contact Peter. He could see if this officer would make a phone call. After that, he'd have to wait until he was checked into jail somewhere and allowed to use a telephone. Peter might check LAPD arrest records, but it was more likely he was mobilizing the FBI for their own search for an escaped or kidnapped CI.

"Officer?"

"What now? You're innocent, you need to pee, the handcuffs hurt, I work for you, and you're gonna sue me?"

Neal chuckled. "I _was_ guilty, I don't need to pee, the handcuffs don't hurt, you work for some idiot Lieutenant who can't remember how to pronounce your name, and suing people is a really boring hobby."

It was the officer's turn to chuckle. "Okay, let's see if you can come up with something original."

"The FBI's looking for me."

"Huh. Unexpected tactic, but completely _useless_ information."

"I'm on work release. I work at the FBI White Collar Division, and my handler is Special Agent Peter Burke. I'm effectively in his custody. Since my anklet went offline, he's bound to be freaking out and yelling a lot and starting investigations. Is there any way I could convince you to call him and just let him know where I am?"

"No way in hell," said the officer. "I don't know who'd be on the other end of the line, and I'm not tipping any of your cohorts about anything. Nice try, now shut up."

* * *

><p>Neal never expected jails to be exactly pleasant, but by the time he'd been punched in the gut for asking to use a phone, Riker's Island was taking the prize for worst experience.<p>

He'd been sitting on a concrete bench, handcuffed to a wall by one wrist along with about thirty other prisoners sitting in a neat row for hours. One by one they were being led into processing, but it was taking forever.

He asked to call Peter. Politely and with a mild-mannered smile. A short, pug-faced officer looked him right in the eye and without a word, punched him in the stomach just below the ribs. Neal gasped and almost choked in pain, and pugface and one of his cohorts dragged him to the end of the line and cuffed him to the wall again.

Nearly an hour later a corrections officer, thankfully not the one who had punched him, leaned over next to Neal to release the suspect sitting next to him. In his back pocket was the clear outline of a cell phone.

_This is dumb_, a slim sense of of self-preservation warned Neal.

_But I'm bored_, complained the other side.

Bored and frustrated won the day. The phone was easy enough to lift, even with one hand. He tucked it away in his pocket, and waited for moments when he didn't think anyone would hear to enter the numbers by feel. Before he could enter the last digit of Peter's number, his turn came and he was led into a booking room.

He was patted down for the fourth time that day.

By the officer whose phone he'd borrowed.

Neal's stomach sank. "I can explain that..." he said, flashing the guy a grin.

The officer punched him in the nose. "You will, once I break every bone in your body and stuff this phone down your throat."

The beating was brutal and deliberate. Brutal, in its infliction of lasting pain. Deliberate, in its avoidance of injuries that would land him in the infirmary or be provable once the bruises faded.

Fists slammed into his face and torso. When he was down and unable to move, staring at the blood on the floor as it spread from his nose and mouth, one of them drew a baton and started whipping mercilessly at his upper legs and butt with the metal club.

Neal clawed at the floor, trying to find something to hold onto. Moaning, trying not to scream or beg, and above all not to give into tears. There was something about being beaten that broke his heart.

"I'm leaving you a bad rating on Yelp," Neal muttered under his breath.

* * *

><p>Mozzie buried his face in his hands, getting frantic. If he couldn't find Neal soon, he'd have to do the unthinkable and call the Suit for help.<p>

Neal wasn't answering his phone. June said he wasn't in his apartment. He hadn't made their afternoon meeting to play chess and drink cider in the park. None of those were good signs when a man had just discovered there was a hit out on his best friend.

He could see it now. "_Suit, could you please use that infernal dystopian nightmare of a device you keep locked to the ankle of the man you so blindly call your friend to violate everything I stand for and track his location for me? Please Big Brother?_"

Mozzie shuddered.

* * *

><p>It was a different team that stripped and fingerprinted him and put him in a set of bright red scrubs. They didn't abuse him, but they didn't seem to care in the slightest about the blood on the floor or the fact that he was in too much pain to remove his own clothing. They simply cut it off, a terrifying procedure when it came to snipping away his boxers, and left him naked on the cement floor. One of the officers threw a set of scrubs on top of him.<p>

"You can either put those on in the next two minutes or get thrown into jail naked. Your choice."

Two minutes seemed like a generous enough amount of time to put on a loose set of scrubs. It wasn't when moving hurt so badly he wanted to cry. He got the pants on, and the top was over his head and one arm through the sleeves when he lost the ability to drive himself any further.

He gave the most decent-seeming of the three men a pleading look. This might just get him beaten again, but freezing up half-dressed was likely to provoke that outcome too. He was going to have to rely on the time-honored tactic of making people want to help you through giving them the chance to save you.

"Please help me."

The guy gave him a long, hard stare, then advanced looking like he wasn't sure whether to help Neal or kill him. But he straightened the sleeve and helped Neal get his remaining arm through. He also helped Neal stand, and supported him while one of the others fingerprinted him.

"Thank you," said Neal quietly, out of earshot of the others.

"You may not want to thank me yet," said the guy in a grim voice as the other two advanced and locked Neal in handcuffs and leg irons.

* * *

><p>Peter wanted to scream at Neal and beat him senseless. But only after knowing he was safe. If Neal had any idea the stress it caused when he cut that anklet or broke his radius...The most awful things were going through Peter's head.<p>

Neal had run. Peter would get fired for failing to control the CI he'd vouched for, and Neal would get re-arrested and sent to prison, possibly for a very long time and possibly in a country that didn't care about its prisoners surviving the experience mentally, emotionally, or physically. Had Neal broken any laws in Saudi Arabia? Would they extradite him? That nation had just been splashed all over the news for amputating the hands of thieves. Singapore would cane him, leaving permanent scars on a man who complained about bad coffee and listened to NPR.

Peter gritted teeth and tried to think about something else.

Neal had been kidnapped. By old enemies, or worse, by new ones he'd made while working for the FBI. For ransom, for revenge.

Neal had been hit by a car. Fallen off a bridge and drowned.

No. Neal was running some crazy angle on a case, and would be just fine.

He had to be. Neal had to be fine.


	2. Wolves of Happy Fun Time World

_WARNING: There be graphic violence and profanity within these pages. The worst is over with after this, so if squeamish perhaps wait for the next chapter? _

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Neal took a long time to catch his breath and get over the pain after having been forced to walk to and climb into a transport van. "Where you taking me?" he managed to ask the driver at last.

"Happy fun time world. Where we put all the assholes."

Happy fun time world turned out to be a jail unto itself. All the assholes were in a yard paved in concrete pitted like the surface of the moon.

Neal was led in, and rather than remove the handcuffs and leg irons, his escort actually tightened them until they became painful and cinched the belly chain snugger before abandoning him. Neal gritted his teeth. He was essentially helpless until he could get them off, which would be tricky surrounded by a mob of curious violent criminals. Not to mention that if and when he managed it, he was likely to be beaten again.

"Evening, boys," said Neal with a grin as a pack of about ten inmates advanced on him. They were all wearing the same blood-red scrubs.

Red for danger.

"So this is summer camp for those of us who piss off the screws for entertainment, is it?" said Neal.

"Let's say if you kin' walk right now, you suck at your hobby," said a young Italian guy with a scar slashing across his neck, returning Neal's darkly sarcastic tone.

One of the men invaded his personal space and sniffed his ear. "Back the fuck off, perv," warned Neal.

"Or what?" his assailant asked, his voice holding a menacing snarl.

Good question. Neal was about as helpless as it got, restrained and so badly bruised it was only adrenaline keeping him on his feet. The good news was that he expected his situation wasn't unique. Half the guys in here had probably been introduced in exactly this condition. This was less like being circled by sharks, and more like a puppy being circled by a curious pack of wolves.

"There's a good five square inches of my body not covered in bruises yet. I'm a completist. Shall we finish the job?" asked Neal, wiggling his eyebrows in playful, almost friendly challenge. "I warn you, I can pull off a mean head-butt."

They could attack and kill him in seconds. But they were more likely to snarl at the newbie in their midst for a while, pawing and snapping until they lost interest and accepted him into the pack.

The guy laughed and stepped back. "How'd you get them bruises?" asked another inmate. Blood trickled down Neal's chin from his nose, but there wasn't much he could do about that with his hands behind his back.

"Stole a cell phone off one of the screws," said Neal.

"And used it to call your mommy for help?"

"Called your mommy to come suck my dick," countered Neal.

"Oh, fuck you. What's your name, jackoff?"

"Neal Caffrey."

The scarred young Italian regarded him with sober respect. "I'm Vincent Corozzo. My family holds you in high regard."

"Nice to meet you," said Neal, as though he'd been introduced to somebody's uncle, not the son of a mob boss.

"May I?" Corozzo stepped forward and inspected the restraints. "Ow. Someone didn't like you."

"Yeah. I lifted a guard's phone."

"He's a snitch for the feds," shouted a burly guy from the back of the pack.

Neal's stomach sank. He could deal with this, but all he wanted to do was curl up in a corner and pass out. Not tackle an issue that could get him killed with a wrong word. At least Corozzo was here and seemed to be the leader.

"I'm not a snitch and never have been," said Neal, meeting Corozzo's eyes directly. "I'm on work release with the FBI White Collar Division, in the custody of the agent who caught me. I use my own skills as an investigator, nothing more. Tommy Gambino himself told me they got no beef with me if I don't rat out anyone. Not you, not anyone. My agent doesn't even ask me to. He knows I got a world I can't share with him."

Corozzo nodded. "I heard that." He looked at the others and raised his voice. "Caffrey is not a snitch. He's with us."

After a round of introductions, Neal's new Italian buddies helped him sit down at a dented metal picnic bench in one of the few slivers of shade.

"Thanks," said Neal. He looked at Corozzo. "Anyone here got a phone? I can get a guy to spring me."

"See what I can do," said Corozzo.

* * *

><p>Peter slammed his palms down on Neal's table and huffed in worried frustration. There was nothing here. When Neal had planned to leave with Kate, he'd left his beloved FBI identification on the table in farewell. If Neal ever ran, it would be without a trace. But not without acknowledgement.<p>

Instinct said Caffrey was in trouble. A sick feeling in his stomach said Caffrey was in trouble.

* * *

><p>If only all the inmates were as friendly as the Italian Mob.<p>

"Hello, Neal Caffrey," said a beefy, red-necked monster with a swastika on his arm. He grinned with a sort of malicious pleasure at the gang backing him up. "There's a price on yer head. An' I'm here for the head."

His pack snickered on cue at his cleverness.

One of them held Neal's arms, another viciously twisted his hair and pulled his head back. The rednecked Nazi punched him once in the back before laying into his stomach. The blows hurt horribly, and he cried out.

Neal's assailants were holding his upper body so tightly he couldn't even move. So he let them support him while he raised up both his legs and jackhammered his attacker in the groin. The guy went down screaming, and the force of the impact shoved the men who were holding him off balance. They dropped Neal, who landed flat on his back on top of his cuffed wrists and screamed when the metal was driven into his wrists by his own weight.

And then the past caught up with him in the best sort of way. Neal's favorite lanky Sicilian stepped forward, with a small army behind him. "You ever heard of the Gambino family?" asked Corozzo. "Caffrey's under our protection, so's best if you wanna keep your kneecaps you leave him be."

"Caffrey ain't no Gambino."

"If you've saved the life of the boss's son on the inside, you don't gotta be no Gambino," retorted Corozzo.

Hillbilly Nazi kicked Neal in the groin. "Worth ten grand to me in a body bag. What's 'e worth to you's all?"

A furious pack led by Corozzo devastated his attackers, and while Neal lacked the strength to stand, he managed to roll out from underfoot.

The young Italian knelt by Neal's side and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Then he slipped a cell phone into Neal's waistband, in the small of his back where he'd be able to reach it with cuffed hands. "Good luck."

Sirens blared, and beanbag rounds fired, and angry corrections officers joined the brawl. With the upper hand in weaponry, they made short work of it.

Neal was lying motionless face down with his hands behind his back when a baton struck his arm and a guard planted a knee in his back and punched him in the cheek. Then he was hauled to his feet by the chain linking the cuffs behind his back.

It felt like his shoulders were being dislocated and his wrists cut off all at the same time. He struggled to stand, but the guards were pulling him along faster than he could walk in the leg irons that were hobbling him with a short chain.

He fell to his knees again and focused all his effort on keeping the phone concealed. It meant the difference between another brutal beating to recover from alone in a cell, and a fiercely protective FBI agent rushing to his side.

"Ow. Ow. Ow," complained Neal through gritted teeth, trying not to scream or cry in pain as he was dragged. He let out a sharp yelp despite himself, and someone's grip shifted, and he was being dragged by his hair too. He tried to get his legs under him, and was kicked in the side.

Then he went limp and devoted all his attention to not screaming. "Stop resisting!" yelled one of the officers. "Stop resisting!"

They dropped him, and Neal shrank into the fetal position to protect himself from the inevitable beating. His hair was yanked on again, and he wondered how he had any left. Then there was a whooshing sound of discharging pepper spray, and his face ignited in pain.

His eyes had been closed, but the guards forced them open and sprayed again, and there was no longer any concern about screaming or crying, because he was doing both and struggling desperately to breathe, trying to convince himself he wasn't dying.

Rough hands rubbed the burning spray deeper into his eyes and the wounds on his face, and Neal started screaming incessantly just to distract himself from the unbearable.

* * *

><p>"Neal! Where the hell are you?" asked Peter. The call was coming from an unknown cell phone, probably a burner.<p>

"I didn't run, Peter." Neal's voice sounded wrong. Tight, anxious, thick. The reception was awful.

Peter made himself lower his voice. There was something vulnerable in those words, something pleading not to be yelled at. "Where are you?"

"In jail."

"Oh. Good." Peter could feel the tension drain out of his body.

There was a low chuckle at the other end of the line. "When a friend calls you and says he's in jail, 'Oh, good,' is not the hoped-for reaction."

All of a sudden, Neal sounded shaky as hell, almost frantic. It wasn't a good sound on him. "Peter, I was wearing the anklet. I wasn't running, I swear."

"No, you just mysteriously happened to be walking down the street, and it went blank."

Neal drew in a deep, gasping breath. "One of the cops told me - these things fritz out all the time. They're always arresting people until there's an investigation."

Peter felt annoyed. That was one reason Neal was wearing the most advanced, most expensive GPS tracker on the market. The damn thing was supposed to _not_ lose his CI. He expected it at a very minimum to avoid getting Neal arrested without cause.

"Where are you?"

"Rikers. Peter - when I was in prison, you said to call you if I was ever in danger. That extend to jail?"

Peter shivered. The tension was back, big time and in an instant. "Yes. Neal, yes."

"This isn't a con, Peter, _please_ get me outta here."

In four years of maximum security prison, Peter had never gotten this call. He knew it wasn't a con.

Neal complained about grunt work, bad wine, and having to sit in the van. He didn't complain to get out of prison, or about being hurt on the job, or even about being framed.

"I'll get an emergency hearing with a judge to get you transferred to my custody. I'll be there for you today. You gonna be okay until then?" asked Peter.

There was a long silence followed by a determined, "Yeah."

And that was a no if Peter had ever heard one. "I'm not waiting for a judge," said Peter. "I'm on my way, right the hell now. You hang in there, Neal."

"Thanks." Neal sounded faint, and the connection went dead.

Peter bounded down the stairs two at a time and dialed Reese Hughes at the same time. By the time he reached his car, he had Reese up to speed and he could pretend his heart was thudding in his chest because he was running.

"I'll take care of everything," said Hughes. "You drive safe and fast, I'll have them waiting for you when you reach the gate."

"Thanks, Reese," said Peter, starting the engine.

"You let me handle this, you hear me? You just go to Caffrey and protect him if he needs protecting. I'll be right behind you with an investigation team and paramedics just in case."

Peter's breathing eased slightly. It was times like this he loved his grouchy boss. Hughes was a brilliant agent with a sharp mind and the ability to trust his people when it counted. If Peter said Neal was in trouble, Neal would be rescued and that was that.

"Thanks," said Peter again.

"Get there," said Hughes.

Peter was halfway to Rikers when his phone rang again, another, different anonymous number. Peter's gut tightened when he answered.

"Suit, WHERE'S NEAL?"

"Uh - at Riker's jail, Moz. I'm on my way to get him."

"Shit!" Mozzie's voice was high, with a more urgent terror than his usual theatrics usually held. "Neal, someone put out a hit on him."

"Shit." And now Peter was scared. Terribly scared. "I'm on my way. I'll tell Hughes to bully the jail even more than he probably already was about protecting him."

"Can we go off the record, Suit?"

Peter sighed. That was not a smart thing to agree to, with Mozzie. But if it involved Neal's life or death... "Yes. You're some random informant I don't know."

"Neal has some powerful enemies, but he has even more powerful friends. People who will track down and dismember anyone who lays a hand on him, and I mean dis 'member' literally. He was in prison with some horrible, awful, well-connected people, and conned his way into their hearts."

"What're you trying to say, Moz? If he dies, it's a bloodbath?"

"No, that only a moron would put a hit on him or do the hitting. But there are lots of morons out there - morons are breeding, morons are everywhere, morons are taking over our world, and it's more than possible the word of money to be made spread faster than the word that they won't be alive to enjoy that money. Neal's presence could spark a prison riot, and that would be a really good chance for someone to kill him on the down low."

"Damn it, Mozzie! I'm _White Collar_. I don't deal with hits and mobsters and riots and-"

"Shut up, Suit. You're the one who threw him into prison with all these people he never would have even spoken to. His blood is on your hands if he dies!"

Peter sucked in his breath.

_His blood is on your hands if he dies_.

Didn't he know it. He would be haunted by it for life, Mozzie or no Mozzie.

_Please, Neal, be okay. Hang in there, buddy. Please._


	3. It Just Is

_THANK YOU for the enthusiastic reviews! I know it sounds manipulative and cliche to say that they make me write faster...but they simply do. They inspire me and they're addicting! I would be writing out of the love of the craft even if nobody was reading, but knowing that people are enjoying what I write and even longing for the next chapter is a motivating force like no other. So thank you. I think this is the fastest I've ever posted the first chapters of a fic!_

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The officer yanked open the heavy metal door into...Peter supposed it could be called a cell, if a windowless, dystopian concrete hell could be called a cell. It was the smallest he'd seen in his life, not much larger than a bathroom stall. It couldn't possibly be legal to confine someone in here. The walls and floor were bare concrete decorated with graffiti, much of which looked like it was written in dried blood. The sole furnishing was a drain in the center of the floor.

"Get in," snapped the officer.

"How 'bout we get him the hell out," snapped Peter in return, looking at what surely couldn't be Neal Caffrey. An inmate in red scrubs lying limp on the floor in handcuffs and leg irons with blood pooling around his body. Strands of his hair were plastered to the floor with drying blood. This looked like the set of a horror movie.

"Fuck you, Fed. Get in."

Peter stared at him, furious. "You nearly get my partner killed, and your response to that is to try an' _lock up an FBI agent_? You are aware I represent the agency that'll be investigating you for what happened to him?"

"What, you want me to serve you and this piece of shit wine or somethin? He started a brawl that just sent three of my co-workers to the ER. One of my best friends may be dying right now because of him. So give me an attitude and you just might find yourself accidentally booked on someone else's kiddie porn charges. I am _not_ in the fucking mood."

Peter walked into the cell to avoid punching the guy. Neal's immediate welfare trumped any personal squabble with a random asshole. The door crashed shut behind him and was given a departing kick. Peter was left looking down at the bloody, seemingly unconscious body of Neal Caffrey at his feet.

He knelt down on the cement floor and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Neal?"

Neal opened his eyes, and looked like he was trying not to cry in relief. "Peter. Come to pick me up from school?"

"Whadda people call these places? Gladiator academy?" asked Peter wryly.

Neal's eyes were red and watery. His face was swollen and stained with blood. There was blood on his clothing, on his arms, on the floor of the cell. He'd been beaten, badly.

"Neal, why you cuffed?"

"I didn't make friends on the staff."

"Obviously. Scootch around so I can unlock you." It was a tight space, and Neal rolled sideways to give him better access to the restraints.

Peter felt Neal wince when he put the key in the first of the too-tight handcuffs, and proceeded much more carefully. He turned the key and peeled the ratcheted bow away from the skin, gritting his teeth when he saw blood and deep open wounds. This was bad. His arms were pale, the dark crimson and smeared rust of blood staining his skin and serving to make it look all the more absent of color by contrast.

Neal made no sound but his muscles quivered in pain, and he gasped, his breath frozen in quiet agony. Peter reached up and touched him on the shoulder until it passed, and clenched his jaw in concentration as he eased the second half of the bloody cuff away from the skin. Neal dropped his arms to his sides with the kind of relief that said he'd had them locked behind his back for a long time.

When he felt like Neal could handle it, Peter unlocked the second cuff and watched Neal's face while he eased it away from raw flesh, correcting his movements any time he saw pain. This time he managed not to leave his friend quivering.

"Surprised you stayed in these," said Peter, half joking, half not.

"Hurts to move."

Peter's chest tightened; his heart was literally and physically hurting. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he gave Neal a soft pat on the back of the head and continued, unlocking the belly chain. The leg irons were less bloody and causing Neal less pain than the handcuffs had, but it was plain to see his playful, non-violent CI had been through hell in these restraints.

Neal gave Peter worried look. "The phone I used to call you - I'm lying on it. They find that on me..."

Peter followed Neal's eyes and slipped the phone out from under his stomach. It was slick and sticky with blood.

"You need to destroy it," said Neal, still looking anxious. "No questions."

"Okay." Peter touched the back of Neal's hand. "I see a lotta blood. You cut or stabbed? Lacerations?"

"No," said Neal.

"Hit on the head with anything but fists?"

"No."

"Spinal injuries? Can you feel your legs and move your toes?"

"Yeah."

"Broken bones? Ribs?"

"Ribs - okay. Nose - wrist - might be broken. Not sure I still got all my teeth."

"Internal organs?"

"Punched to hell and back. Dunno," said Neal.

Okay. Peter drew a deep breath. There was too much blood. Not enough to be life-threatening, but way too much for this to just be a beating. If there weren't any lacerations to account for it...

He rubbed Neal on the shoulder.

_Oh, Neal. Please tell me you weren't raped_.

This wasn't the time to ask. It was the time to hold him and comfort him, to let him know he was cared about and accepted and loved no matter what was to come.

He pulled out his phone and texted Hughes.

_It's bad. Need medical and crime scene._

Peter sat down with his back against the wall, legs outstretched, and reached for Neal. His bloody and battered best friend dragged himself up and hugged Peter, accepting the invitation to crawl onto Peter's lap and collapse in his arms. They held each other, and Neal hid his face against Peter's chest, trembling. After a minute he let his head sink back against Peter's arm, looking up at him in pure shock.

Peter couldn't think of a single damn thing to say, so he just kept looking back into Neal's eyes. The eyes of a criminal he'd come to love and trust, who trusted and adored him. The eyes of a man tough and fearless, who was vulnerable to worry and condemnation.

"This doesn't feel real," said Neal. He held Peter's gaze for a long time, not with any particular expression other than dazed. It seemed like he was trying to ground himself in reality. "And it feels so real that - I'm just shut down. I can feel myself shaking right now, and I don't know why, I'm not scared."

"You're in shock," said Peter, keeping his voice calm and gentle. His left fist was clenched so tightly his fingernails were biting into his palm, and he ground down harder to keep the anger out of sight and sound. Neal, dazed in the wake of a violent attack, could easily misinterpret it as being aimed at him.

"It's physical, not psychological. You're in survival mode right now, the emotion comes later."

Neal gave him a wry smile. "I spend one lousy afternoon in this place and I'm in a horror story."

Peter patted him on the arm and raised his eyebrows. "You were attacked with hockey masks and chainsaws?"

"Alien slime and giant ants." There was no levity in Neal's tone, and he clung to Peter's shirt with one hand.

"How you feeling?" asked Peter for lack of anything else to say or do.

"Cold. Sick."

"Are you in much pain?" asked Peter.

"Feel like I should be in more," said Neal. "Shock, you know?"

"Yeah. Well, with any luck at all we'll have you in a doctor's office and drugged silly before the worst of it catches up to you."

"I don't need a doctor," said Neal. "I'm beat up and need to crawl into a dark corner for a little while, that's all."

There were tears in his friend's eyes. Despite the aching sadness in Neal's expression, Peter didn't think he was crying. Just suffering, remembering too much pain present and past. Enduring it physically in the present.

Peter wiped the tears away gently with his thumb. Neal whimpered, not a scared sound but a cry of distress, of an awful memory. "Neal?"

Neal blinked and blinked, trying to rid himself of the tears that were now emotional as well. He gave up and turned his head a few millimeters, a silent permission to do it again. Peter wiped away the tears almost as a caress, but Neal let out another involuntary distress cry and recoiled.

"Neal?"

Peter frowned. Neal's eyes and face were red like he'd been crying uncontrollably. Neal did cry, but it tended to be in the form of silent tears you'd miss if you weren't looking right at him. "They pepper spray you?"

Neal gave a short nod and looked away. "They were dragging me by my hair and my wrists. I - got hurt when I cried out, and when I tried to get my legs under me, so I just gave up and let them drag me. They told me to stop resisting, sprayed me, forced my eyes open, and did it again. They - actually rubbed the stuff in. I still - can't see right."

Something very odd, and very painful, happened in Peter's heart. He closed his own eyes and held Neal, trying to wrap him with caring and protection and grief. He'd been pepper sprayed himself, going through Quantico. It stuck out to this day as one of the more horribly painful experiences of his life, especially when combined with the fear of feeling like he couldn't breathe, and no way to extinguish the fire searing his face and eyes and mouth and lungs.

And that had been with his permission, in a safe environment with his classmates holding him steady and the instructors reassuring him and helping wash the stuff away. It'd been voluntary training, not torture. He couldn't imagine going through it helpless, restrained, beaten, and at the hands of people trying to make the experience as painful and violating as possible.

Peter felt tears in his own eyes, of empathy and grief. He brushed a spare strand of hair away from Neal's face. There were open cuts and bruises all over that face, as if pepper spray needed to be any more painful.

"Will you excuse me for a minute while I go kill a few guys?" asked Peter, unable to smile or inject levity into his voice.

"No," said Neal. "Coming with you." There was genuine anger in his voice, which came out a low, gravely growl.

"Were they trying to kill you?" asked Peter.

Neal's jaw tightened. "No, just torture me. Killing would be wrong, you understand."

"Do you know about the hit?" asked Peter.

"Huh?"

"Mozzie called after you did, freaking the hell out. Some moron put a hit out on you."

Neal was silent for a moment. "Well, that 'splains a bit."

* * *

><p><strong>NEAL<strong>

Neal held on to Peter for dear life, gripping a handful of his shirt like it was a life raft. He was cold and sick and filled with dread. He was suddenly and for no reason afraid he was dying. "Peter - if you leave, I'm gonna die in here."

"I'm not leaving." Peter's voice was a balm on a very raw wound.

"Please don't leave me."_ I don't want to die alone._

"I won't," Peter promised.

Tears stung his eyes again. There had been bad days in Sing Sing, occasionally very bad ones. But never this blatant and seemingly universal brutality. "I'm _scared_. I'm - scared that this place exists in my world. I think - people die in here."

Wasn't it just minutes ago that he'd told Peter he wasn't scared, and wasn't in much pain? His face throbbed, and it seemed like every part of him was burning, stinging, or aching. He could taste his own blood where his teeth had cut open his lips, one eye was blocked by a reddish haze of blood, breathing hurt, and he felt like one of his wrists might be broken.

He'd been beaten up before, and was used to telling himself the pain would end and he was really in one piece. But never this badly. This was scary, wondering if his eyes were damaged, if his cheek or jaw or wrist or ribs were broken, if anything was more than bruised in the aching pool of fire that was the soft parts of his torso, if his balls still worked.

The pain, he could suffer through if he knew it would end. Humans had been beating other humans since the dawn of time. People survived it, easily. If he was badly hurt, that was what the hospital was for. He would be in pain for a couple weeks, and then gradually he'd realize moving no longer made him want to whimper.

"I'm sorry you're in pain, Neal," said the soft, steady voice he trusted most in the world. He tried reaching for Peter, and realized he was already clinging to him.

"S'okay."

"Please don't be scared. I'd protect you with my life. Reese an' the cavalry'll be here soon. We'll get you outta here an' pump you full of meds, that'll help. You'll heal and all of this'll become just a bad memory. It'll be over before long, just try an' remember that, okay?"

"Kay."

"What can I do?" asked Peter. "Right now, what can I do?"

Neal didn't like the silence after that question. The silence hurt more. The silence let him focus on how his stomach was so tight with pain he didn't even want to breathe.

"Talk to me. Don't stop talking, please - just talk to me, or I forget you're there and it all hurts."

"Okay," said Peter.

"Anything else I can do?"

Neal's grip tightened on his shirt. "What you're doing. Be here - so I'm not afraid to pass out if that happens. I think I might."

"I'm not going anywhere," said Peter. "I promise. You're safe."

"K."

He rubbed Neal's shoulder. "I would die before I left you alone right now. I'm not sure I'm ever gonna be able to let you out of my sight again."

Neal had to smile a little, in spirit if nothing else. Wasn't like Peter was already obsessed with knowing where he was every minute or anything. Guy was going to be insufferable.

And that was just fine.

To truly need help, and be able to call someone he trusted implicitly to come, and care...that was worth everything. "Thank you," Neal whispered.

"I'm so sorry, buddy. And I'm sorry I was flippant on the phone with you. I thought being in jail meant you were safe."

"S'okay."

"You're gonna be all right," Peter assured him in the gentle voice that made him melt inside. "You got yourself through this, got me here. You just relax and let me take care of you for a bit, okay?"

Neal nodded, overcome with a wash of gratitude. He was so lucky to have this. To have Peter to call on, to hold him. To trust. He was so used to doing things on his own that it seemed almost magical to make a single phone call and know with absolute certainty that a brilliant, competent, ethical and caring person would move heaven and earth to rescue him.

_Him_.

Neal Caffrey, felon, forger, con artist.

"Thank you. Thank you for coming. I don't know - what I did to earn your friendship, or having you care about me, but it's - the world," said Neal, trying not to get choked up.

"I think friendship's - like love," said Peter, hugging him a little tighter. "It's not something you have to earn. It just - is."

* * *

><p><strong>PETER<strong>

Neal's eyes were glazed, and he kept trying to hold his gaze on Peter. "Hey - it's really nice. To trust someone right now. It's - makes - everything's gonna be okay."

He was clinging to a lifeline, and that lifeline was line of sight with Peter. Peter looked directly into those complicated, expressive blue eyes, not wanting to see pain and fear in them but not about to deny Neal was he was looking for.

He didn't see pain or fear. He saw trust, and love, and confidence. Neal knew it was going to be okay. He knew he was safe. And it was Peter holding all that together.

"I've got you," said Peter.

Neal smiled. "I know."

He sagged, and his head wobbled, not quite unconscious but not really conscious either. He was checking out. But if he wasn't scared, Peter had no problem with that.

He started stroking the side of Neal's face and head, running his fingers over the soft lines of skin and hair, letting him feel warmth and a gentle touch. Neal made a heartbreaking mewling sound when Peter's hand brushed one of his closed eyes, but he also relaxed deeply, going completely limp in Peter's lap.

"You're okay. You're safe, everything's going to be fine. You'll be fine, you're coming out of here with me, in my car. We'll take you home, or to my place, whatever works out. And after you've had a long time to sleep, and some good wine, you'll be back at work in the FBI building with me and Jones and Diana, and I'll bet even Hughes is gonna be way too nice to you for a while."

He kept talking. His friend was semiconscious, relaxed in the world of soft words and gentle touches Peter was creating for him. He wasn't in distress, and that meant a hell of a lot given the circumstances.

But Peter couldn't help feeling a little sick when the cell door opened.


	4. The Best Revenge

The few seconds of not knowing who was outside, or if he was going to have to throw himself between Neal and an attacker, were some of the most tense of Peter's career.

But it was Reese Hughes at the door, looking grim as hell, and Jones, and Diana, all looking like murder would be very easy for them at that moment. They had a couple high-ranking and pale corrections officers with them, and a paramedic from NYFD, and a guy with a US Marshals badge on his belt. They were backed up by crime scene guys, and a set of agents from outside White Collar. Peter let out his breath slowly in relief.

"The cavalry's here, Neal," Peter said quietly. He wasn't sure how much Neal was aware of, but it was likely he was clinging to enough shreds of consciousness to know the door had opened. And if it'd made Peter feel sick...

Unless he was mistaken, Neal relaxed a little more.

The cavalry started shooting photos of the cell. A crime scene. Blood. Neal's blood. Peter realized that blood stained his own shirt, and pants, and hands.

After his initial evaluation, he'd tuned out the injuries and just focused on Neal the person. He looked so awful, and his body had been so badly abused, that Peter couldn't imagine reflecting that picture back at him. He'd made himself simply look into Neal's eyes and see his undamaged soul, not the wounds.

"Go ahead and lie him flat on the floor," instructed the paramedic, taking one of Neal's hands and clipping on an 02 monitor to his finger.

Neal's hand was limp, but Peter could feel his body tense at that. "No," said Peter, keeping his voice soft. "He's semiconscious. He's in shock. He'll feel it if I do that."

The paramedic gave him a frustrated look, and snapped a vial of ammonia and held it under Neal's nose. Modern-day smelling salts.

"Get that away from him," snapped Peter as Neal's body convulsed in an attempt to escape and his eyes flew open, scared. "Jesus. What part of compassion don't you understand?"

"My job isn't to be compassionate, it's to make sure he's not dying and save his life if he is. I need you to leave the scene, please."

Peter was saved from the need to react by Jones grabbing the paramedic's shoulder in an iron grip. "No, you need to leave the scene. Leave your bag. I know this guy and I was trained as a medic in the military."

The paramedic didn't quibble, leaving the cell quickly. Jones sat on the floor next to Neal, who was regaining alertness fast. "Hey, buddy. Mind if I take your blood pressure?"

Neal shook his head, and Jones checked his blood pressure, listened to his chest, checked his O2 saturation, and his temperature. His pupils dilated normally and he passed any number of small tests Peter soon lost track of.

Jones' friendly, matter-of-fact examination set Neal at ease. "Well, you're a bloody mess," said Jones cheerfully. "Your blood pressure's low enough I want you checked out for internal bleeding, and with the head trauma you're going to want some careful monitoring. But you seem perfectly well anchored in the land of the living."

"I coulda told you that," muttered Neal.

"We normal people like empirical evidence that our friends aren't dying," retorted Jones.

"I'd like empirical evidence that I can get the hell out of here," said Neal.

Jones smiled and waved at the paramedic. "Bring that gurney in here."

Neal's face twisted. "No, I don't think so. I'm walking out of here on my own two feet with my head high."

Peter stared at him. "I appreciate the desire to do that. But get real. You can't even stand."

"I can," said Neal with pure steel in his eyes. "It's just pain."

Peter looked up at Hughes, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded. "Gary here with the Marshals office wants to put a new anklet on Caffrey. Then he's free to go wherever you want to take him. I'll take care of business here."

There was a certain primal aggression in Reese's voice when he said "I'll take care of business," that made Peter gloat just a little. Hughes didn't anger easily, and displayed emotion even less readily. But he backed good people, and while Reese would never admit it, Neal had been put on that list.

Jones got out of the way, and it was the Marshal's turn to sit down beside Neal. He was pale, and trying to remain professional and not stare. "I'm Gary Wills with the US Marshal's office. I've just gotta fit you with a new anklet."

"Make sure this one works, would you?" asked Neal with a spark of humor in his expression.

Wills swallowed hard like he was nauseated, and tried to smile. Peter was glad this wasn't one of the brash, beefy, brawler types. He was short, and had kind eyes, and a pleasant expression.

"You don't want the special Monopoly edition 'go directly to jail' version?" asked Peter.

"I prefer a mansion."

"You already live in one," protested Peter.

The Marshal smiled, confused but liking the good nature. "Do you have any injuries I need to be aware of putting this on?"

Neal shook his head.

"Which ankle do you prefer?"

"Left."

"Okay, I'll have you out of here in just a minute."

Wills stopped short when he pulled Neal's pant leg up. "Uh - the blood all over your ankle? Kinda the sort of thing I had in mind when I asked you about injuries, Caffrey."

"I don't care," said Neal. "Just put it on and get me out of here."

"Hey." The Marshal scooted back up to Neal's side, grimacing when his palm slipped in a pool of blood. "I care. Please don't confuse me with the people who did this to you. I'm not slapping this on over raw wounds."

"You gonna let me out of here without it?"

"Well..."

"Just put it on me," said Neal, sounding pissed. He relented a moment later, realizing the concern in the Marshal's expression was genuine. His face softened, as did his voice. "It's not like I'm going hiking in the thing. You won't hurt me. I just want to be able to go home. Please."

Wills sighed and glanced at Peter for guidance. "Neal's tough," said Peter. "If he wants you to put it on, put it on. I'll make sure it doesn't hurt him."

Wills grimaced at the idea, then his eyes fell on the paramedic's bag. He pulled it over, put on gloves, and used nonstick pads and part of an ace bandage to wrap and pad the cuts with great care. Then gently flexed Neal's ankle and fastened the tracker. "How's that?" he asked with a sober expression.

"Comfy," said Neal. "Thanks."

Wills snorted. "Hey, you asked me to do it."

"I wasn't being snarky," said Neal. "The pressure bandage feels nice."

Wills gave him an almost shy sideways smile. "Well then..." He fished out more supplies and wrapped Neal's other ankle the same as the first.

It usually annoyed Peter, how people started pampering and accommodating Caffrey the minute they laid eyes on him, for no good reason whatsoever. But right now, he had enormous appreciation for this Marshal being kind to Neal.

"Thank you." Neal and Peter said it in off-key unison, and that made all three of them smile.

Wills patted Neal on the hand. "You gonna be safe?"

"Long as Peter's got me," said Neal.

Wills gave him a sad little smile. "Take care, then. Call me if there's any problems with the anklet."

Wills left, someone else hovered at the door, and Neal stopped breathing. Every muscle in his body went tense. It was an ordinary enough looking guy, the sort you might find behind a checkstand or delivering mail. But he looked pissed, and wore a corrections uniform. He was the man who'd ordered Peter into the cell.

"Are you the agent in charge here?"

Peter's eyes narrowed. "No. Because I'm what you might call emotionally involved," said Peter, letting his true rage out for the first time.

"You don't want me investigating you. I'm filing charges for false imprisonment of an FBI agent, for threatening to file false criminal charges against me, and confining me against my will in this illegal, biohazardous hellhole. You treated my partner with unconscionable brutality, and while he was suffering from possibly life-threatening injuries, you locked him up. Alone and unmonitored in what looks like a medieval closet with nothing but a drain for his own blood. No first aid or pain management, in improperly applied, horribly painful restraints over raw wounds."

Peter drew a deep breath. "This was after your reckless endangerment put an injured nonviolent offender who hadn't even committed a crime into a situation where he was vulnerable to violent criminals. And that's only criminal charges. Wanna hear what we're going to be suing for? Or what we'll be charging after we review CCTV footage?"

The guy's face flushed red, and his fist clenched. "I just came here to say I have a real problem with your type. I'm real glad you have the luxury of feeling sorry for these inmates and worrying about if they're comfy enough. I didn't get into this job to be an asshole or to hurt people. But your kind comes in here after a bunch of violent criminals decide to get into a fight. Because we have a duty to keep these inmates from killing each other, we intervened-"

"Oh, you call brutality intervention now?" asked Peter, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The guard looked like the only thing stopping him from kicking Peter in the face was the presence of about ten other FBI agents. "Three of us just went to the hospital and a bunch more are limping around without treatment because the job goes on. It really chaps my ass that you're coming in here and crying over the piece of shit that caused all this. Way to make a guy who just risked his life to maintain order feel like his pain is nothing stacked up against that of the violent criminals who inflicted it."

Neal pulled away from Peter's arms and sat. "I've been to prison. I had some wonderful COs, I saw what they go through, and I would have put my own life on the line to protect them. But I did nothing to provoke that fight, I did nothing to you, and you put me in agony while I was injured and completely helpless. That's what the very _worst_ of violent criminals do."

"He's _not even charged with a crime_," said Peter, keeping his expression cool to hide the fact that even saying it broke his heart.

One of the other agents Peter didn't know stepped forward with disgust in his eyes. "I am incredibly sensitive to the pain you're in. My former partner is permanently disabled from a fight with a suspect. But I just came in from outside, where I learned that you dumped this man in a yard with violent criminals while _wearing restraints_. I'd like to know_ exactly_ how anything that ensued can be blamed on the man chained up hand and foot, who was already down on the ground before your men even entered the yard."

Peter rested a steadying hand on Neal's back, out of sight. Then he asked almost under his breath, "Is this one of the men who dragged you?"

Neal bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, and nodded.

Hughes intervened. "Burke, did you say this man locked you in a cell against your will and threatened you with false charges?"

"Yes."

"Diana, place this so-called officer under arrest."

"With pleasure." Diana cuffed him, then paused for a second with her hand on his back. "You're going to be taken to a Federal detention center, where you will be treated humanely and with respect for your civil rights."

Peter raised his eyebrows in respect. The way Diana had said that was a more lethally effective rebuke than any variety of "fuck you and the horse you rode in on."

Neal gasped when Peter and Clinton helped him to his feet. He gritted his teeth. "Ow. Ow. Ow. _Shit_ this hurts."

"You don't have to do this," said Peter.

"Like hell I don't. I'll walk outta here if it kills me. Best revenge I can get right now is walking out of here with my head high."

Neal couldn't even support most of his own weight at first, and hung heavily between Peter and Clinton. But with determination and a couple of high-pitched moans, he got his legs to hold him.

Neal didn't want to be supported, but he walked out tucked close to Peter's side, with his left hand on Peter's back to steady himself. He had to grab Peter's shirt a couple of times when he wobbled, but he made it out of the jail and into the transport bus that carried them back to the main intake building.

Neal entered the intake area with an easy stroll and a smile that made the injuries look like stage makeup, because nobody beaten or in pain could walk like that. Nobody except Neal. He spotted an officer near the exit door and glanced at Peter.

"Excuse me for just one moment," said Neal, his voice coming out in a furious growl. Peter followed him at a cautious distance in case one of them attacked the other.

Neal smiled his most brilliantly charming smile, and plucked the guard's hat off. He flipped it in his hand, stuck it on his head, batted his eyes at the guy, and very deliberately flipped him off before strolling away.

And that, Peter realized, was the scariest he'd ever seen Neal. Dressed in red scrubs darkened with blood, open wounds around his wrists, his arms and bruised face stained crimson. And smiling with a jaunty bounce in his gait. There was a menace to this simple act that showed him how a completely nonviolent guy could hold his own against violent criminals. Neal was a force to be reckoned with.

And it made it feel like even more of an honor that this indefatigable and supremely capable man would let himself be vulnerable with Peter, to pass out in his arms and let himself be comforted.


	5. Bleeding Out

Neal stopped after he opened the door and leaned against the car.

"What's wrong?" asked Peter.

"Uh - you got a towel or a plastic bag or something? I'm a bit of a mess, and...the car seat..."

Peter stared at him for a second. Trust Neal to have been brutally attacked in jail, and be concerned about _getting the car bloody_. He was about to order Neal to get in when he stopped. Neal was fastidious enough to feel completely miserable if he thought he was trashing Peter's car.

Peter popped the trunk and pulled out one of the ubiquitous nylon FBI windbreakers. He helped Neal put it on, then set the largest plastic evidence bag he could find down on the seat. He supported the now very wobbly Neal into the car, then leaned down to his eye level and squeezed his shoulder. "I don't care about the car, Neal."

_I just care about you._

Neal gave him an embarrassed little smile. Peter straightened and closed the door.

"Where we going?" asked Neal once they were well away from the jail.

"To your doctor on the outside." Neal's medical care was still paid for by the BOP and the responsibility of Sing Sing, but Peter had convinced both parties that it was absurd to have to drive Neal outside his radius all the way back to prison for care. Neal saw a doctor at Peter's clinic, inevitably a pretty young brunette who adored him.

"I don't need - or want - a doctor," said Neal. "I'm just beat up."

"You're a prisoner in my custody who's injured and in pain. You're seeing a doctor."

Neal didn't answer, but he didn't look happy. Finally, at a stop light, Peter asked the question he'd been dreading. "Neal, were you sexually assaulted?"

Neal shook his head, but Peter kept watching him, every movement of every muscle in his face. There had been something truly scared in Neal's voice on the phone, and fear was not something that came easily to him.

Finally Neal surrendered and met his eyes. "No. But I'm fairly certain I would have been if I spent the night in that place."

It was the first time Neal had looked him in the eyes since they left the cell. So Peter held the gaze.

_Hi, Neal. I got you. I care, I'm here for you, you're safe._

Neal's return look was almost shy. _I'm sorry._

He was trembling, and that made Peter's heart break.

"Thank you for calling me," said Peter. "Thank you. You're my friend, and if I ever don't get that call, I'm gonna be devastated. Thank you."

"It's okay?" asked Neal.

"Neal. Always. Of course. No matter what."

"Thanks." Neal looked away, pale. It wasn't easy for him to ask for help, nor to trust that it would actually arrive.

They stopped at another traffic light, and Peter rested his right hand on Neal's arm, lost. Neal didn't tremble like this. Neal got scared, anxious, worried, hurt. He'd gotten shaky during his first arrest, after his conviction, and back there in the cell, an involuntary, mild physical reaction. But he didn't sit there and quiver like a traumatized puppy.

His arm was cold, but there were beads of sweat on his unnaturally white face.

_Neal doesn't tremble this way._

He was shivering. He was going into shock, not the superficial kind that Peter had seen in the cell. The kind people died of.

Peter hit 911 as his eyes searched for the cross street. "I'm an FBI agent. My partner needs immediate medical attention, get the police to clear the way and give me an escort to the nearest hospital."

"Uh - Peter?" Neal gave him a puzzled frown when he got off the phone. "Overreacting much?"

"Of course, the one time you _aren't_ trying to be the center of attention is when your life actually depends on it," grumbled Peter.

Neal's fists were clenched in pain, and the shivering was worse. Peter turned the car heater on full blast. Neal protested. "I got beat up. Thass all."

"I don't think it is all," said Peter, forcing himself to keep his voice gentle and steady. "I think you're bleeding internally, and I think you're going into hypovolemic shock."

Neal shook his head, but he was starting to look like he was going to pass out. He let out a sharp, stifled cry of pain when they hit a pothole.

_Damn it._

_I'll walk out of here if it kills me_ had better not turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The pieces were coming together to form a picture Peter was kicking himself for not seeing. The blood. There was too damn much blood, and he'd been too much of a coward to simply ask Neal in the cell if it was the result of sexual assault. Neal would have said no, and Peter would have persisted until he found out why his CI was bleeding all over the place.

Jones had expressed concern about Neal's low blood pressure and internal bleeding. Had Neal's walk out caused an internal hemorrhage?

He should have allowed the unfeeling but far more highly trained paramedic examine Neal instead of Jones. He'd sheltered Neal mentally at the expense of his physical survival.

_If you leave, I'm gonna die in here._

_Please don't leave me._

Neal had, on some level, sensed something seriously wrong. And Peter hadn't picked up on it, just the way he hadn't taken Neal's phone call seriously until Neal explicitly asked him for help.

An NYPD squad car nosed its way into the intersection, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

Peter had deliberately avoided any mention that his partner was actually a criminal informant. As long as the emergency responders believed Neal was an FBI agent, a member of law enforcement, they would move heaven, earth, and garbage trucks to save him. Peter was glad he'd put the bold FBI windbreaker on Neal before they got in the car.

There was a pause after he lined up behind the squad car, and he pulled the anklet key from his pocket, leaned down, and managed to yank it off Neal before they started moving again. Neal was going into the ER as an FBI agent, too.

Peter felt a cold, unusually gentle hand on his arm as he pulled out behind the squad car, and glanced sideways. Neal was giving him the most incredibly touched, grateful look a man about to pass out could manage. He understood exactly why Peter had pulled the anklet.

"I'm gonna be with you every second they let me," said Peter.

"Why would I be - bleeding internally?" asked Neal, confused.

"Lots of reasons. Didn't get stabbed and conveniently avoid telling me, did you?"

"Nope. No stabbing."

According to the GPS, they were three blocks out from the hospital and closing fast. Without taking his eyes off the road, Peter said, "Do me a favor. Pull your shirt up and look."

In his peripheral vision, Neal did. And responded with dead silence.

"Neal."

"I guess I was stabbed."


	6. Agent Caffrey

Peter ran his finger across the surface of his FBI badge, his reminder of an oath to serve society with honesty and integrity. Then he lied his ass off.

"I thought you said this was your partner - why is the payer the Bureau of Prisons?" asked a very puzzled hospital clerk.

Peter glanced uneasily from side to side and shifted his feet before leaning forward on the counter in confidential proximity. He spoke in a low voice inaudible to bystanders. "Caffrey _is_ my partner. He does - ah - _undercover_ work. Deep undercover. He can't be checked in here as an FBI agent. Do you understand me?"

The clerk's eyes lit up with the zeal of a boring life suddenly given a breath of intrigue. She gave him a secretive smile. "I see. Absolutely. On paper he's a..."

"Convicted felon," supplied Peter with a wink.

The clerk blushed and her gaze slid to his left hand, then fell when she saw his wedding ring.

A voice interrupted from behind them. "Agent Burke?" An exhausted-looking blonde nurse with blood on her scrubs was holding a clipboard like it was a log in a stormy ocean.

Peter decided he'd rather not see one more pair of blood-stained scrubs in his life. "Yes?"

"We're prepping Caffrey for emergency surgery. He's sustained three stab wounds to the torso, and he's bleeding internally. His prognosis is excellent, but there's always a risk. We won't know the extent of the damage until we get him in surgery. We thought you might want to see him before -"

"Yeah." Peter cut her off. _We're giving you the chance to see him one last time. In case he dies in surgery_. However delicately the nurse was going to put that, Peter didn't want to hear it.

Peter was ushered in to chaos that crackled with the efficiency of a life-or-death operation. Seemingly just minutes ago, it had been him, Neal, and four silent walls. Now, there were people bustling everywhere, and shouts, and monitors and tubes. The red scrubs were discarded on the floor.

Peter's eyes couldn't help going to the bag hanging above Neal, and the red in the tube snaking down to his arm. They were giving him blood.

To replace what he was losing internally.

Neal was in a hospital gown with monitors on his chest and clipped to his finger, and blood was staining the front of the gown and the gloves of the attending doctor. His battered CI looked a little less pale now, the tense lines of pain gone from his forehead.

"Oh Neal. I'm sorry."

He didn't look scared. Neal grinned at Peter, ignoring the efforts of a nurse to get a needle into a vein on the back of his hand. He looked almost elated, and Peter was trying to figure that out when the nurse huffed in frustration at being unable to hit a vein.

She gave Neal a sympathetic glance. "I'm sorry, Agent Caffrey. I know this hurts. Your low blood pressure's making this tough and we really need another line in you right now."

"S'okay," said Neal. "Not afraid of needles." He smiled at her. "And beauty is a wonderful narcotic. Especially when she's saving your life."

_Agent Caffrey._

The nurse tried to hide her smile, and gave Neal's hand a light squeeze before trying again with the needle.

Peter grinned. "_Agent_ Caffrey isn't afraid of much. Just don't serve him bad coffee, or he'll run away and never speak to you again."

Neal's eyes were twinkling in delight. He looked like a little kid who'd been given a firefighter's badge. "You gonna be here when I wake up, _Agent_ Burke?"

Peter cast a questioning glance at the doctor who seemed to be in charge.

"Guys." In a flash, Neal's eyes were as serious as Peter had ever seen them. "Peter's my family."

The doctor glanced between them, then she gave a curt nod.

"But of course, Agent Caffrey," said Peter.

The nurse finally managed to hit a vein, and taped the IV in place. The doctor addressed them both. "Okay, guys. Wrap it up, we're headed into surgery _now_."

Peter leaned down and gave Neal the closest thing to a hug that he could manage under the circumstances, and felt Neal's hands touch his sides in a similar makeshift gesture.

"I'll see you soon, Neal," said Peter.

"Peter..." Neal hesitated, his eyes taking on that unusually serious look again. "I'd - be dying in that cell right now."

Neal didn't need to finish the sentence. _If you hadn't come for me_.

"I will never stop chasing you," promised Peter.

Neal grinned. "Ah, Peter. So - cuddly. And not at all creepy."

"Says the man who looks like he just survived a slasher film."

"Guys -" snapped the doctor, looking impatient.

"You just relax and sleep through it an' let the good guys put you back together again," said Peter. "I_ will_ see you soon."

"See you soon," said Neal. They got a chance to squeeze hands one last time, and he was wheeled off.

Peter turned away, and stood about a foot from a painting on the wall, inspecting it closely to hide the tears that had come into his eyes. His stomach was tied in a knot and he felt like he was gasping for breath even though he was breathing normally.

It had come down to an unspoken pause on a bad connection. If Peter had missed that, misinterpreted it, or failed to take it seriously...and he almost had...

Neal Caffrey would have died alone, chained up in a cement box. He would be staring at the body -

Peter blinked away tears. Neal was alive. Close call or not, emergency surgery or not, Neal was alive. He didn't have to inflict that grief on himself. But his visceral horror at how close that had been simply would not go away. The life of his best friend - the difference between survival and a painful, desolate death - had rested on the head of a pin Peter didn't even know he was holding.

And now it rested in the hands of strangers.


	7. Fairytale Felony

"We're not going to lose him." It was a kind-sounding female voice.

Peter reluctantly turned to face her. It was the doctor who'd been preparing Neal for surgery, looking far less harried now. "Please take - all the care you can possibly -"

"We're not going to lose him," she repeated. "That's not a professional promise. Just one human being to another. He's strong and healthy and I have a very experienced gut feeling saying you don't need to torture yourself. He has two of our best surgeons waiting for him in there, and his anesthesiologist is an expert in stabilizing trauma patients."

Peter managed a smile. "My gut agrees with yours. And thanks."

Peter left for the waiting area, not wanting to be rude, but unwilling to make conversation. Talking had no bearing on this. Just the actions of a team of surgeons and anesthesiologists and nurses, and one very tough young man's ability to survive it all.

He would. Peter knew, with odd certainty, that Neal would make it through surgery. Fear that he would die hadn't caused those tears.

Peter sat in the waiting area and buried his face in his hands.

_I'd be dying in a cell._

Neal had gone through all of it with three stab wounds in his torso. The waiting, restrained in a cell, for Peter to arrive. Lying in his arms in shock, having the anklet put back on, getting up and walking out of the facility. Peter remembered Neal saying yes, he could wait. It made him sick. The hesitation would have been so easy to miss. One miscalculation on Peter's part, and Neal Caffrey would be dying alone right now.

This was the black side of humanity. Not just the violence. Not just the fact that people left a man who'd done nothing to hurt them, _would_ do nothing to hurt them, beaten, chained, and dying behind a metal door.

What chilled him, wrenched him, and ultimately left him with tears in his eyes was that he'd pulled Neal's anklet. It was as instinctive as getting a police escort to the hospital.

Because some human beings were less valuable. Because they were black, because they were gay, because they had criminal records. His entire brilliant, brave, wonderful team was comprised of people society was or had been willing to throw away.

He'd had to pull an anklet off his best friend and partner and con the staff of a hospital so that that Neal would be given the same passionate treatment an injured FBI agent would receive.

Remembering the look Neal gave him in the car, and that gentle touch, brought the tears back.

_He knows_ I_ value him._

That was what moved him about Neal. He looked into Peter's eyes with unwavering trust, trust that Peter didn't begin to deserve. Trust that he'd repeatedly violated. That Neal had repeatedly violated, too.

But there was so much beauty in the way Neal looked at him with relaxation and surrender when he should be hurt and terrified. All this person asked was for someone to see him when he was down and still care about him when he couldn't manage witty banter and a charming smile.

It didn't matter what Peter had done or would do, arresting him, chewing him out, calling him a criminal. Because Peter had seen him under arrest, scared, heartbroken, in prison. Peter had his number. Peter saw through the act, wasn't a member of the Neal Caffrey fan club, sometimes didn't even like him very much.

But he always had cared about the guy. Especially in those moments when the mask fell. He liked Neal better with his guard down. When he was scared, was sobered, wasn't acting.

Did that mean he liked to see Neal hurt?

No.

Neal hurting hurt him. But he liked the person, not the act. He liked the true toughness, and courage, and loyalty. He liked the irrepressible spirit, intelligence, and gentleness in Neal. He liked that Neal was trying. And it melted him inside that Neal would crawl into his arms in utter affection and trust.

* * *

><p>Mozzie was out of breath like he'd run to the hospital on foot. His face was red, fists clenched and sweat on his forehead. "I hope you like being a pawn of a brutal government, because if he dies, you're going to be haunted by his screams every time you close your eyes. His blood is on<em> your<em> hands."

Peter decided to take him literally, just to throw him a bit. He looked at his palms with a morose expression. "Hospital made me wash 'em."

Mozzie was thrown. His expression wavered a bit, and he pointed to Peter's shirt. Peter had stripped down to a t-shirt, but it was still stained where blood had soaked through his dress shirt. He felt dreadfully conspicuous, in a bloody white tee with his shoulder harness and gun in full view. "That's...?"

_Neal's._

"Yes," said Peter.

"I'd like to see you try to justify yourself now, Suit. Neal - you practically own him and he was nauseatingly okay with that because he trusts you, and where did it get him? In a - a death center which is probably just going to finish the job the prison-industrial complex started, because once we label someone a felon suddenly -"

Mozzie's rant was starting to catch the attention of the desk clerk. Peter grabbed Mozzie's arm, hard, and spoke with a fierce warning. "Shut it, Moz."

"Police brutality," Mozzie shouted, struggling in typical Mozzie fashion. But there was shock on his face when he looked up at Peter, a telling confusion.

_Why are you hurting me?_

Not exactly the reaction of someone who considered him pure evil.

Now that he had Mozzie's attention, Peter softened his grip and spoke in a low voice that wouldn't be overheard. "I pulled his anklet, Moz."

Peter let Mozzie's arm go, and Mozzie jerked it away with a lethal glare. Peter didn't let him get a word in edgewise. "I pulled his anklet. Told the cops and the doctors he was my partner, and conned the desk into thinking he's a deep cover agent. I am not an idiot, and whether you believe it or not, I care about Neal."

Mozzie studied the floor for a minute. "I'm sorry, Suit," he said shortly.

"I am not going to let Neal, _my_ Neal, _your_ Neal, be treated as anything less than the man that he is," said Peter with a sort of angry passion that startled him. "They beat him, Moz. They threw him to wolves who kicked and punched and stabbed him, then they locked him up alone in chains."

Peter knew suddenly and with absolute certainty that he was going to punch something, and turned away so that Mozzie wouldn't think it was going to be him. Then he nailed a cushion on the nearest couch with all his strength, rocking it back, then kicked it, over and over again.

"I am not letting one single person so much as look at Neal as anything but the brilliant, loyal, brave -" Peter hammered the couch again.

"FUCK THEM. He - he looked at me, Moz. I'd just pulled handcuffs off raw wounds, he was beaten and bleeding and it turns out he was fucking dying from being stabbed, and he just looked at me and trusted me and - damn it, he's a thinking, feeling, loving human being and how anyone who isn't a sadist or a psychopath can fail to see that -"

"Suit. Suit."

Peter reluctantly left the broken and bleeding proxy for humanity that was the hospital couch and faced Mozzie.

"Come here, Suit." Mozzie had a strange look on his face, and Peter couldn't help wondering if he was walking into a stabbing. He and Neal could compare matching scars.

Mozzie hugged him.

"He's my best friend, Moz," said Peter, feeling like he was gasping for air. "I had to pull his anklet so my best friend would be treated as valuable. He's - not just a name. He's not just a criminal. He's _Neal_."

"Welcome to the real world, Suit."

Peter drew up a deep breath. "I'm part of that real world, Moz. Please don't write off those of us who care when you're handing out what's real and what's not. Don't tell me my friendship isn't real."

Mozzie actually looked at Peter, really looked at him, as a person and not an extension of the government. It was possibly the first time he'd ever done so. "Can I trust you?"

Peter sat on the couch he'd just brutalized, patting the seat for Mozzie to join him. Mozzie did, without even shrinking away from Peter like he carried a viral infection that caused wrongful convictions.

"You already trust me, you just don't know it," said Peter.

"Okay, fine." Mozzie sighed. "You may not believe it, but Neal is a very nice person. He's like the anti-bully."

Peter smiled. Mozzie had probably needed someone the opposite of a bully in his life. "I believe you."

"I need to tell you a story."

"Okay," said Peter, curious. Anything he didn't already know about Caffrey was like catnip.

"Once upon a time, an Italian mafioso had a son with a very respectable woman. She insisted on raising the little mafiello in a world far away from his, and so he paid for the child's upbringing and education, and watched from afar as his son grew up. He was happy that his son wasn't a part of his dark and violent world. The son grew up and married, and gave the mafioso a grand-mafista."

Peter blinked, trying to follow Mozzie's inexplicable cultural-linguistic mashup.

"Well, our mafioso couldn't resist spending time with his granddaughter, and that led to very bad things. Our young and naive mafiello ended up having to defend his family against some very bad people, and did a little bit more than stand his ground. His wife was killed, but the grand-mafista survived. Our mafiello was sent to Sing Sing, where he became so despondent with the loss of his wife and his freedom, and so heartbroken over being separated from his daughter and terrified by prison, that he tried to kill himself. Repeatedly. And then he met a more experienced and very sweet inmate named Neal Caffrey, who comforted and supported the young man."

Peter smiled. So this was the point where Mozzie's verbal avalanche became relevant.

"This Neal Caffrey was an artist, and an art teacher. He worked for months with the mafiello and together they painted a beautiful portrait of his family to give his daughter. Neal helped our mafiello create something to make sure his daughter never forgot her mother's face, and gave her a happy image of her father holding her and her mother to look at while he was...away. All this time, Neal was a shoulder to cry on as painting this portrait helped process this young man's grief. When it was over, he never again tried to kill himself. And that is how Neal Caffrey came to be beloved to our very powerful mafioso and his secret son."

Peter blinked, and set his jaw hard to hide the fact that he was way more moved by the tale than any self-respecting FBI agent should be. "Wow."

"And the survivors will live happily ever after as soon as daddy completes a six-year prison sentence," said Mozzie.

Peter chuckled. "And that's how a fairy tale sounds in the criminal world."

"Hey, it's a great deal less grisly than most of Grimm's so-called 'fairy' tales of horror," said Mozzie.

It took Peter a little while to process that information. If he were to admit it to himself, he saw Neal either as predator or prey, depending on the situation. He'd been worried about Neal being a target of violence in prison, and worried about the targets of his misdeeds out here in the free world.

He'd never imagined Neal spending his time in prison helping others. It made sense, given how beloved he seemed to be to both guards and inmates. It just - was clear he'd under-estimated Neal and steriotyped the whole situation. Peter saw glimmerings of trauma in him, ghosts of captivity whispering from dark corners.

But perhaps Neal really did find happiness in there. He hadn't cast himself as a victim, he'd cast himself as a rock others could turn to. It was easy to imagine Neal, nonthreatening and gentle but strong and capable, helping people cope with prison.

"I underestimate Neal," said Peter softly.

"At your peril, Suit. More importantly, at the peril of the foolish soul that ordered a hit on him."

"Neal wouldn't-"

"The Sicilian Mob would. Will. Neal will probably never know about it."

* * *

><p>Reese glanced sideways at him. "This shows Caffrey..."<p>

"It's okay," said Peter. He watched while Neal was grabbed, and held by a small group. Restrained at the mercy of multiple assailants, he had no way to defend himself. A beefy skinhead type punched Neal in the gut, and Hughes paused the playback, pointing at the screen.

"This is where he was stabbed. We think the weapon was held between the fingers so that it would stick out from a clenched fist. Caffrey likely thought he was just being punched."

Peter grimaced. "Makes sense."

Neal's attacker struck him again in the stomach, then again. Then he used the men holding him as leverage, raised both legs in the air, and used the powerful muscles in his legs to kick his assailant in the groin so hard that both the skinhead and the people restraining Neal were thrown backwards, off balance.

Neal landed on the ground, hard, unable to break his fall. Hughes stopped the playback. "Caffrey just saved his own life," said Hughes.

Peter let out a low whistle. "Phew. He did that with three holes in his stomach?"

Reese's mouth twisted. "He was severely beaten by the guards before this happened. He shouldn't even be able to stand by that point."

Peter stared at him. "Why?"

"He stole a cell phone from one of them."

Peter buried his face in his hands. "_Damn_ it, Neal. Why - does - he - do - these things?"

Hughes gave him a moment. "I share your frustration. But when he wakes up...don't give him the impression his lifeline thinks what was done to him is just."

"I don't!" Peter snapped. "Nothing justifies this. Nothing."

"Make sure Caffrey knows that's how you feel. I don't have tape yet, but from what I'm hearing - he's going to have a lot to recover from when it comes to that alone."


	8. Wake Up

Hughes looked at Peter with an expression even grimmer than usual. "We need to talk, alone."

Peter followed his boss to an empty elevator lobby, his jaw set. That set of words could only be bad. "I don't know how to be delicate about it," said Hughes. "So I'll just say this. We blew the response."

Hughes looked at the floor. "Caffrey should have been evacuated by ambulance immediately. I made the same decisions you did, and I was the senior agent on scene, so I take responsibility. But we need to acknowledge that in failing to get him immediate, professional care, we could have killed a man who's not only our colleague, but our ward."

Peter nodded, his stomach twisting. He hadn't just endangered Neal, he'd been a lousy FBI agent.

"I shouldn't have let myself be locked in that cell," admitted Peter. "I should have examined Caffrey more - unflinchingly. I never should have kicked out that paramedic, and I sure as hell shouldn't have let Caffrey just walk out."

Hughes was silent in agreement for a few moments. "What were you thinking, Burke?" It was a genuine question, not an attack.

"I was thinking - my friend had been through a horrible trauma. There was nothing I could change, or do to relieve his physical pain besides removing the restraints. But I could comfort him mentally and emotionally. I must've blocked out that the incident itself wasn't resolved."

Hughes leaned back against the wall and sighed. "I've seen too much for the scene in that cell to throw me off my game. But I saw the blood, and instead of viewing it as an active emergency, I read it as a crime scene."

His boss hit the down button on one of the elevator banks. "Hopefully he'll live with our mistakes. Let's not make them again. If you can't think clearly where Caffrey is concerned, we're going to have to look at pulling one or both of you from field work."

Mozzie and El were there when Peter returned, side by side, the loyal friends. Peter's stomach was in a knot, and his head was buzzing. He wanted to punch himself and hide scream, and he was desperate to justify his actions at the jail. But he was a trained emergency responder and the best person in the world to tell himself he'd screwed up. He'd thought like a civilian, driven by emotion and instinct. Effective emergency response was and had to be ruthless and factual, just like the paramedic in the cell.

_My job isn't to be compassionate, it's to make sure he isn't dying and save his life if he is._

That was Peter's job too. And he'd failed.

"Suit?" Mozzie looked almost genuinely worried about him.

"I screwed up! I should have just let the paramedic treat him and drag him out on his ass on a stretcher. I made a stupid damn set of emotional decisions and it almost cost him his life."

Peter looked around with his fists clenched, willing himself not to scream in rage and self-hate and fear and everything a grown man who also happened to be an FBI agent wasn't supposed to give in to.

He thought of Neal, sitting in his office with an impertinent grin, feet up on the desk, judging the coffee and scheming. Coming up with absurdly ambitious and elaborate plans that somehow actually worked, and bouncing out of the office at Peter's side giving him a hard time about his suit.

Peter's breathing started to return to normal. As much as he would never admit it out loud, Neal was good for him. He'd always gotten wound too tight on his own, trying to control everything including himself and stressing to the point of anger over it. As much as Neal needed Peter to keep him on a tight leash, Peter needed Neal to poke at him and tease him and remind him that even very serious things didn't need to be - well, taken so seriously.

He needed Neal now.

"It had to cause him - agonizing pain to walk out of there," said El after Peter had recounted the whole story.

"It did," said Peter, grim.

"That says to me it was really, really important to him," said El. "Think about it, hon. This wasn't just painful and traumatic, it was humiliating. He needed to stand up for himself, literally."

"I know that!" snapped Peter. "It was my sympathy for his mental and emotional state, and my own grief for it, that almost cost him his life. I decided to act as a friend, not as an emergency responder."

El rested a hand on Peter's back. "My point is, he was willing to endure physical hell to walk out of there. Don't discount how important it was to him."

Peter sighed. There were things a civilian could never quite grasp. That he'd lost sight of today. Psychological impact simply had to play second fiddle to the realities of keeping someone alive. If it meant looking his best friend in the eyes, asking if he was raped, and when he said no, yanking off his clothing and finding where the blood was coming from and having him hauled out in an ambulance, well, that was more his duty to Neal than being sensitive and comforting.

El had come bearing clean clothes, and food Peter couldn't stomach eating. Gradually their little corner of the waiting area turned into a community. Mozzie. June. Diana. Clinton. Even Gary Wills, the US Marshal, stopped by to ask if Neal was going to be all right.

"Peter Burke?" called a nurse after what seemed like an eternity. They all stood and looked at him anxiously. "You waiting for Agent Caffrey to come out of surgery?"

"Yeah."

"He's in recovery right now, about to come out of anesthesia."

Peter asked what they were all wondering. "He gonna be okay?"

"Surgery was successful and barring any complications, we expect him to make a full recovery. Come with me, Peter."

He was unconscious, but he looked like Neal again. His split lip, a cut on his forehead, and smaller gashes on his cheek and chin had been cleaned and glued so they wouldn't leave scars. The blood that had been staining his face and arms was gone, and his hair was clean. The one wrist Peter could see was neatly bandaged.

"Thank you - for cleaning him up," said Peter. "It'll mean a lot to him."

Neal was being monitored intently by what Peter thought were a doctor and her nurse. The doctor smiled. "We flushed the pepper spray out of his eyes and cleaned all the wounds, washed off all the pepper spray and blood while he was out so it wouldn't hurt. One of our reconstructive surgeons stopped in and did his face and wrists. He should be comfortable, and the scarring will be minimal."

"Thank you," repeated Peter. Never had those two words been so heartfelt. These doctors had just given him Neal Caffrey back. And Peter was there when Neal opened his eyes, just like he promised.

"Welcome back," he greeted a pale, confused-looking Neal. "You're fine, you're safe."

Neal blinked. "Why didn't they operate?"

"They did," said Peter.

"It's - over?"

The doctor took over. "You were in surgery for three hours. No internal organs were damaged, and we were able to do most of the procedure laparoscopically, so your recovery should be easy."

Neal closed his eyes to process that. "Felt like - a minute."

Peter smiled. "Well, you _were_ unconscious. Would've seemed like a lot longer if you were awake."

Neal's eyes had been drifting shut, but the doctor spoke in a firm voice. "Mr. Caffrey? Are you in any pain?"

"Little. Wanna sleep." His eyes were closed.

The nurse injected something into the IV line. "How are you feeling?"

"Sick. Sleepy."

"Are you nauseated?" asked the doctor.

"Yeah. Lemme sleep."

"We will," the nurse assured him, administering something else.

Neal tried to shift position, but was too drugged to do much beyond turn his head. Peter realized Neal was trying to move closer to him. He reached out to touch the cheek being presented him, and Neal closed his eyes. A few moments later, he was asleep with the side of his bruised face pressed firmly into Peter's palm.

Next time his eyelids fluttered, the doctor urged him awake again.

"Any pain?"

"No. Thanks."

"Nausea?"

"No."

"I need to do a quick check," said the doctor. "What is your name?"

"I am Rochragnoroff, God of fine wine and bad toilet paper," said Neal with a perfect deadpan expression and voice. He looked sleepy, annoyed, and bored.

"What day of the week is it?"

"It is the day of the final dawning of potassium chloride and that day upon which the glory of industrial space heaters shall be mine."

"Who is the president of the United States?"

"Rochragnoroff, God of astrophysics and Twinkies."

"Um - sir, are you messing with us?" asked the doctor.

"Plunger."

"It's a software glitch," said Peter. "Happens every so often." He tapped the side of Neal's skull. "I'll grab the Neal-resetting hammer."

Neal glared at Peter. "Neal Caffrey, Monday, Barack Obama, plunger." His eyes drifted shut again.

"I think Rochragnoroff is sleepy," said Peter. "Gods of minor consumer goods get that way."

The doctor ventured a barely-amused smile. "Patients get loopy coming out of anesthesia. Some of the drugs can have a disinhibiting effect."

"Why can't I move?" asked Neal.

"You can," the doctor assured him. "Wiggle your hands and toes. You're just weak from the drugs still in your system, and blood loss."

Neal did. And reached for Peter, tugging him by the sleeve in a weak grip. Peter scooted closer to the bed, and put his free hand on Neal's upper arm. "I got you," Peter assured him. "Not goin' anywhere."

Neal didn't respond. He was sound asleep, or unconscious. Peter glanced at the nurse in concern. His only barometer for this was seeing Neal drugged in a much different doctor's office. Uninhibited, sweet, trusting drugged Neal wasn't completely new to him, and wanting physical contact to ground and reassure him after what he'd been through wasn't out of character. But was he supposed to be out like this so soon after waking up? Shouldn't he be goofy, slurring his words and trying to sing show tunes?

"It's fine," the nurse assured him. She double-checked all of Neal's vitals. "Agent Caffrey's on quite a bit of pain medication and the anesthetic hasn't completely cleared his system. He'll be in and out for a little bit, and it's normal for him to be a bit confused. After a traumatic attack like this, he'll probably find it very reassuring to wake up being touched by someone he trusts."

A number of times, he woke up, opened his eyes with worry on his face, and then instantly relaxed when he saw Peter. He would press his face even more firmly against Peter's hand and then go to sleep. It was as if he kept waking up to see if he was safe.

The nurse left, and Peter sat with Neal, who with great caution began to wake up. When his eyes were open, they looked anxious.

"It's okay," said Peter. "It's over."

Neal's expression darkened. "Why, when something awful happens, people always say it's okay? It it were over, I'd be on my balcony with coffee and a paper and it wouldn't hurt to breathe."

Peter touched Neal on the arm, and Neal's expression softened. "We're projecting what we wish were true."

"How was I _stabbed_?" asked Neal. "That's the sorta thing a guy tends to notice."

Peter grimaced. "Remember that big skinhead guy punching you?"

Neal nodded.

"He was actually stabbing you."

Neal raised his eyebrows in surprise. "It did hurt an awful lot."

This was too much the Neal Caffrey he'd picked up from prison. Stress aging his face and making it look hard-edged and sunken, anxiety in his close-drawn eyebrows, and a tense, trapped look in his eyes. An alien toughness on a face born to be elegant and playful.

Peter thought about Neal, pacing with his face wrinkled up in distaste at a murder scene. It was genuine. Neal hated seeing violence. He himself was physically brave. But the empathy he showed for the victims of violent crime spoke of an intimate knowledge of the damage it did.

This was fearless, brilliant, daring criminal Caffrey who not only survived four years in prison but mastered it. Who never flinched at the danger of FBI work. It was also the Neal who showed genuine distress when faced with a murder victim, and befriended the man who caught him, and who whined about bad wine and looked like a fashion model.

So. Caffrey could handle this, survive it and bounce back from it. Neal was also suffering, and sad and hurt.

"Let me see you through this, 'k?" asked Peter.

Neal frowned.

"I know you felt what was just done to you," said Peter. "Not just the pain. Don't lock me out, let me be with you."

"Nothing you can do," said Neal.

"You ever had someone to lean on when you're hurt?"

The sad, lost look in Neal's eyes answered plainly, though his expression didn't waver. Peter stroked Neal's wavy dark hair, pushing a stray bit that was tickling his eye. Neal's face relaxed.

"You don't like violence."

Neal shook his head.

"You know what it does to people, that it's not just about physical pain."

"Yeah."

"This was a violent crime. We both know how hard it hits. Let me be there."

Neal reached for Peter's hand and squeezed it.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"If I go back to prison - please, still talk to me. I don't think I could handle if you weren't my friend any more. Please don't - abandon me if they put me in a cage."

Never had he seen such a heartbroken, pleading expression on Neal's face. In his heart, he would care about Neal wherever he was. As Neal's handler, he'd always wanted to keep Neal afraid that he would lose Peter's friendship if he crossed the line. But that was clearly a pain too deep to inflict.

"I won't abandon you, I promise."

Tears stung Neal's eyes. "I love you, Peter. I don't think you know that."

Peter took one of Neal's hands in his and tucked it under his chin, closing his own eyes to hide the emotion in them. "Of course I know."

"This reminds me of being locked away - with no one to see how much that hurt. Prison - wasn't all that bad. But it does hurt, being exiled and told - that you deserve to be punished for years on end with no way to say you're sorry."

Peter stroked the side of his arm. "I saw your pain, going into that. I felt for you, thought about you a lot in there."

"Yeah?" Neal gave him a faint, wistful smile. "That's oddly comforting."

He leaned forward and hugged Neal. "You are loved more than you know. There's a whole crowd out there in the waiting room worried sick about you."

Neal gulped. "There's also someone willing to pay thousands of dollars for my brutal murder. It's what you call a trade-off."


	9. Cortext

Another nurse entered. "Agent Caffrey? It's time for your MRI, and after that the neurologist will meet with you."

Worry twisted Peter's stomach again. Those both sounded serious. "You're checking him for..."

"Traumatic brain injury from the beating. The neurologist will also be assessing nerve damage from handcuff injuries."

Neal and Peter exchanged glances. "They said before I went into surgery that I'd need to do this," said Neal.

"Don't worry too much," the nurse assured them both. "Agent Caffrey's CT scan looks good, there were only minor indicators that we need to follow up on with an MRI."

"Give us a sec?" asked Peter. The nurse departed, and Peter turned back to Neal. He was still groggy, and looked anxious.

"I'm trusting you to go through all this without your anklet," said Peter.

Neal looked confused, and then startled. "I'd never repay this by running." The look in his eyes was more and more distressed by the second. "Never. I'm not gonna run, Peter - I'm not. Please-"

Peter held up his palm to stem the flow of words. With mention of the anklet, he'd gone from friend to agent of law enforcement. Neal had just been given reason to view being in custody with pure terror. "I trust you. Right now, I trust you. You are safe, and I believe you."

Neal blinked over and over again, fighting through trauma and powerful narcotics to process Peter's words. "Not - gonna cuff me to the bed?"

Peter shook his head. "You're Agent Caffrey, remember?" That coaxed a tiny smile from Neal. "And why would you be afraid of that anyway? You'd be loose in, like, thirty seconds."

Neal looked sheepish. "Sorry. That wasn't the most rational reaction I've ever had."

Peter squeezed Neal's hand. "Nobody expects rational right now. I'll be waiting for ya', and not as the guy who puts you in anklets and yells at you. As your friend."

"I'd rather have an anklet and a good yelling at than an MRI," said Neal.

Peter gave him an evil grin. "Plenty of time for both."

Neal swatted him.

* * *

><p>"Sir? I'm Dr. Lana Patton. I'm a neurologist, and Neal Caffrey has requested that you be present when I meet with him."<p>

Peter stood and sucked in a deep breath. As nervous as he was about this, he couldn't imagine how Caffrey felt. The doctor led him down a series of tan hallways whose bleak institutional layout and antiseptic odor started reminding him of a prison. They boarded an elevator, and finally Peter got up the nerve to ask.

"He okay?"

Dr. Patton looked at Peter evenly. "He's a criminal, isn't he?" She didn't use the word criminal with disdain.

"He's my partner," said Peter.

Patton sighed. "I get why you're protecting him, and I admire it. And he's a lovable guy. But I need you to answer my question, here, in private. He's a criminal?"

Peter decided to trust her. Neal was going to like this woman, with her crisp, intelligent blue eyes, straight black hair, and kind face. She carried her head high and looked at Peter with absolute confidence.

"He's got a white collar felony conviction," said Peter. "He's serving an escape sentence as a consultant for the FBI. He's my best friend, my co-worker. He's a wonderful and valuable human being who just went through a horrific assault."

"Has he ever been diagnosed as a psychopath?"

"What?" Peter's blood pressure spiked in rage. "He's not a psychopath!"

"I just asked if he's ever been diagnosed. Even wrongly," said Dr. Patton, taking a step back and positioning her tablet between them like a shield.

Peter drew in a deep breath. "BAU agent told me he was. After he was convicted, they gave him the PLC-R evaluation. He was labeled a psychopath, and sent to a maximum-security prison for white collar crimes partly because of that wrongful diagnosis."

"Think about the typical profile of a psychopath, and describe your friend," she said gently.

"I know he fits most of the criteria. But Neal - is absolutely lacking in cruelty or violence, explosive or otherwise. He doesn't have or understand many social attachments, but he has fallen in love very deeply, and he's shown me love, loyalty, and trust. The capacity's there, he's just never been in an environment that encouraged it."

Dr. Patton nodded thoughtfully and put a hand on his arm to steer him down the hall and into a private room. It, too, reminded Peter of a prison cell. Sterile, stark, with a TV bolted to the ceiling and a high window that barely let in natural light.

"Hello again, Neal," said Dr. Patton when they entered. Neal was still hooked up to monitors and an IV, but he was looking more - alive.

"Hi," said Neal. It was Peter that Neal's gaze sought out. He looked terribly anxious. Peter sat on a chair beside his bed and rested a hand against Neal's upper arm.

"I got your back," Peter assured him.

Dr. Patton put several brain scans up on a monitor mounted near Neal's bed. "Neal. I understand you've been mistakenly evaluated as a psychopath in the past."

"I have, and I'm not," said Neal.

Dr. Patton nodded. "Are you aware of the basic traits of a psychopath?"

Neal nodded. "Fearlessness, extreme charm -"

Peter broke in. "Pathological lying -"

"Easily bored," countered Neal.

"Grandiose sense of self-worth," said Peter.

"Criminal versatility was always one of my favorites," said Neal.

"Poor impulse control -"

Neal gave him a mock glare. "High social confidence..."

"I see your high social confidence and raise you reckless excitement seeking and disregard for others," said Peter.

"Flaunting of authority," said Neal with a proud smirk.

"Eating the brains of your enemies?" suggested Peter.

Dr. Patton was chuckling. "Okay, boys. You've got the idea. Mr. Caffrey here has a few indicators of psychopathy."

"Minus the cruelty and explosive violence," said Neal. He gulped and turned his head to Peter, giving him a pleading look. "Only when you're supposedly a pathological liar, nobody believes that bit."

"I do," said Peter, squeezing his hand. Neal squeezed back. It appeared they were both nervous about what this might all be leading up to.

Neal took a breath and looked at Dr. Patton directly. "I know how closely I fit the profile, but I dislike violence and I hate cruelty even more. I do care about other people. And by the way, I didn't wet the bed, start fires, or torture animals."

"PLC-R?" asked Dr. Patton. Neal nodded. "No actual medical diagnostics?"

"No, just being flung into a cage with murderers without warning, which is a really bad set of circumstances under which to prove you aren't insane," said Neal dryly.

"I need to interject here," said Peter. "Neal is kind. He loves deeply if infrequently, and sacrifices for people in his life. Psychopaths lack empathy, Neal has it in spades. Even for the FBI agent who caught him, even for his prison guards."

Dr. Patton smiled. "I love having smart patients. Are both of you aware of the role prefrontal cortex damage plays in psychopathy and impulse control problems?"

Peter nodded. "I know lots of serial killers, rapists, and torturers have frontal lobe damage. Neal is none of those."

Dr. Patton sat down. "The brain is a complex system that even advanced medical science knows very little about. Please understand that I'm not making any kind of case for your being a killer or a psychopath, all right?"

"Okay," said Neal with great caution.

"You ever suffer a head injury?" asked Dr. Patton. "Perhaps as a child?"

Neal laughed so hard it was almost a snort, then grimaced in pain. "Which one might we be talking about here?"

"Okay...I'll take that as a yes?"

"Yeah."

"Well, Mr. Caffrey, these scans show some distinct irregularities in the frontal lobe." She pointed out several irregularities in the scans. "It's likely this damage informs more of your behavior than you know."

Neal blinked. And blinked again. "I'm _brain damaged_?"

"Mildly so."

"Neal's one of the most intelligent men I know," said Peter.

"Brain injury doesn't automatically make you incompetent," said the doctor. "Any more than a paper cut automatically leads to limb amputation. There's a wide range in severity of injuries and the effect they have, and it's possible to have no impact on intelligence or reasoning skills."

"Is it a criminal defense?" asked Neal.

"Oh - of course _that'd_ be your first real question," said Peter.

"I'm not a lawyer, but - no. There's a difference between being able to understand and possibly treat the origins of criminal behavior and using it as an excuse. If a behavior is completely out of a person's control, the best we can offer as a society is to try to put that person where they'll receive treatment and training. Quite probably, that would consist of a prison with specialized care facilities if you're lucky."

"But you're not saying I'm a psychopath?" asked Neal.

"No. You have frontal lobe damage, a brain injury _associated_ with psychopathy. Your symptoms are slightly different. As you and Agent Burke pointed out, you're a nonviolent and empathetic man, and you feel love for other people. You won the lottery in that respect."

"Can I be treated?"

She sighed. "Are there medications that might alter your behavior? Yes. Would a highly functioning individual be advised to take them? No. Behavioral therapy would be more effective, without the side effects."

"Uh - I'm sorry," said Peter. "Neal Caffrey and behavioral therapy? This's one of the most brilliant minds in white collar crime you're talking to."

Dr. Patton addressed Peter. "What's your role in Neal's life?"

"Uh -" That seemed like an awfully big question. "I caught him, he went to prison. He escaped, I caught him again. I threw a tracking anklet on him for take your con to work day. It turns out we like catching bad guys together, so he's serving his sentence in my custody. I'm his boss, but he's also my best friend, he's my partner at work...we're family."

"Are you trying to be a positive influence in his life? To show him right from wrong and give him feedback on his behavior?"

"Constantly," said Peter.

"Neal, do you listen?" asked Dr. Patton.

Neal grinned. "Sometimes."

"Let me put it another way. Do you respect Agent Burke, and recognize that he cares about you and is trying to help you become someone who can have a life that doesn't involve prison?"

The grin vanished. "Yes," said Neal.

"Then you're already in the best behavioral therapy program imaginable," said Dr. Patton.

"Can we move off the topic of me as the brain-damaged pet criminal and onto what's wrong with my hands?" asked Neal. He sounded pissed.

"The superficial radial nerve is damaged on both wrists, and the median nerve on your left. You're suffering what we call handcuff neuropathy."

Peter froze. He tried, hard, not to let his seething fury take hold, because Neal would see it and be afraid it applied to him in some way, not his attackers. He failed. "Those - mother - fuckers," he said through clenched teeth.

"The cuts on his wrists came from landing hard on his back while cuffed," explained Dr. Patton. "But the damage to the nerves came from being dragged by overtightened handcuffs. It effectively crushed the nerves against the bones of his wrists, which was both agonizingly painful and physically damaging."

"Will I get better?" asked Neal.

"It'll take anywhere from a month to a three years to fully heal, but it's not permanent. There's no loss of function, just parasthesia - loss of sensation along the backs of your hands. It feels like having pins and needles from cut-off circulation."

"He could be in pain for three years from this?" asked Peter.

"It's not so much painful as annoying," said Dr. Patton. "I don't think it'll take more than six months to heal."

Neal broke in, trying to reassure Peter. "You know when they give you Novacaine at the dentist, and it starts to wear off, but you're still cold and numb? It's like that, only - prickly."

"You can still use your hands okay?" Peter asked.

Neal smiled, and held up his right hand. It held Peter's watch.

######################

Thanks to Siddigfan for the plot bunny about Neal having prefrontal cortex damage, which would inform some of Neal's more reckless behaviors. Sorry about the long delay, I wanted to run the medical bits past an expert but ended up just researching on the internet...heaven help us.


	10. Shelter

Peter supposed _Neal is brain damaged and the nerves in his wrists are crushed_ probably wasn't the best thing to lead with.

He plastered a bright smile on his face. "Neal's just been listed as stable. He'll make a full recovery."

After the celebrating, he told El and Mozzie the rest of the story. Mozzie looked as stunned as Peter, who sat down beside him.

"Satisfied now, Suit? You arrested and prosecuted a brain-damaged individual, who has now been beaten and stabbed for it as well."

"I am not 'satisfied,' Moz," said Peter, trying to have patience with Mozzie's returned inclination to lay all the perceived evils of the government at his doorstep.

Mozzie exhaled with what almost sounded like a low growl under his breath. "How hard would it have been for one single person, for example the arresting agent who claims to know all about Neal and care about his fate, to see if -"

"Moz. He didn't know," said Peter. "I didn't know. You didn't know. And he still would have been convicted, minor brain damage isn't a free pass out of trouble. Especially not if you're clearly one of the most intelligent, cunning, and talented criminals alive."

El interrupted the futile semi-argument. "Has anyone told you when he can leave?"

"Possibly this evening," said Peter. "They're waiting for him to be able to walk a little on his own, and things like that. He'll need to have someone with him-"

"Us," said El with steel resolve that dared anyone to challenge her. "He stays with us."

"Our guest room and bathroom are both upstairs," Peter pointed out.

"So is his entire apartment," said El. "And it doesn't have room for both of us and Satchmo."

"What am I?" complained Mozzie. "Cottage cheese? Call me charmingly delusional, but methinks he might be more at ease with someone who doesn't have a track record of cruelly imprisoning-"

"Moz." El put her hand on his arm and gave him her most endearing smile. "You're always welcome in our home, and-"

"What?" Peter said, glaring at them both. "No he's not. Do you know what this little guy gets up to when he's not charming you with unwanted home decor?"

"Do you?" asked Mozzie with a pointed glare.

"Well - no," Peter had to admit. "But so long as he can get upstairs, Neal's with us."

Mozzie grabbed Peter's sleeve and yanked it, hard. "You listen to me, Suit. His friendship with you marks the first and only time he's put himself in the hands of another person. Imagine you fought for your own life for twenty-five years, and suddenly someone capable and kind was willing to hold the world at bay for a little while. That is a trust Neal has never extended to anyone, and if you break it, I'm going to make the mythical angry father with a shotgun look like Miley Cyrus."

* * *

><p>"You're agent Caffrey's supervisor?" asked yet another doctor.<p>

Peter nodded. She handed him a carbon yellow slip.

"I'm putting him on restricted duty for the five weeks. No lifting, running, or operating vehicles or machinery. No whatever FBI agents do - fighting or shooting."

"How long does he need to stay home?" asked Peter. He looked at them both. "There's - boss is fine with him taking as much time off as he needs."

She smiled. So did Neal. "My advice would be he takes at least two or three weeks off, but he doesn't want to. He wants to be at work to take his mind off it as soon as he can. So just be nice to him, and bear in mind he's incredibly sore. The bruising on his lower body looks like he's been hit with a car. It's not going to heal quickly. There are the three surgical sites, and his shoulders were wrenched hard enough to strain the muscles. He absolutely has to stay on schedule with his pain medication and anti-inflammatories. If you let anyone put him in handcuffs or leg irons again before those wounds heal, I'll track you down and kill you."

Neal shot Peter an anxious glance. "I need to get tested a bunch for HIV and Hepatitis in case there was infected blood on what was used to stab me, or in that cell. It's - unlikely that I'll ever come back positive, but it's scary."

He hesitated for a moment. "And - in the meantime, you'll want to be careful about getting my blood on you."

Peter shivered. "I know agents who've been through that waiting game. They never tested positive, but I remember how scared they were."

Neal looked away. "Just be careful, okay? If I get shot or something."

She faced Peter. "I've written scrips for pain meds, muscle relaxants, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatories. Fill them on the way back to wherever you're taking him, they'll make him sleepy and a lot more comfortable but he needs to be in a safe environment."

"He's coming back to my house," said Peter. "Anyone wanting to mess with him there's gonna have a very pissed-off FBI agent to contend with."

The doctor grinned, the last of her reserve crumbling. "Perfect. You might want to invest in a case of ice packs, too."

"I'm coming back to your house?" asked Neal almost shyly when she left.

"Where else?" asked Peter.

"I thought - I was headed for Sing Sing until I can work again. You - don't have to do this." It wasn't his most sincere attempt, in fact Peter thought he detected a slight longing.

"Unless for some reason you actively want to be in prison instead, you're coming home with me."

Neal tried hard not to smile, and failed. "Is the FBI really going to allow that?"

Peter smiled. "Hughes already cleared it. If any higher-ups complain, you can consult from my living room couch. He's letting me stay home from work to be with you."

* * *

><p>Neal made it up the stairs, and crawled into the Burke's guest bed like it was shelter from a blizzard.<p>

"Neal," said Peter softly, holding up the anklet. Neal, eyes closed in exhaustion, stuck his ankle out from under the covers. Unless Peter was mistaken, Neal actually relaxed when Peter put it on. El reached down to tuck him in, and he was already half asleep.

She unpacked the clothes and toiletries she'd coerced Mozzie into fetching from Neal's apartment, and the frightening collection of orange prescription bottles, and placed them all within easy reach in the nightstand.

Then she knelt down by the side of the bed and stroked his shoulder. "We'll wake you up when you need to take your meds. You yell for us if you need anything, even someone just to sit with you." Neal nodded, his eyes still closed.

"Good night, sweetie."

"Night, Neal," said Peter from the doorway.

"Good night," whispered Neal.

* * *

><p>Neal swallowed his pills to put at bay the ache that had awakened him and lay motionless on the bed in the dark. He tried to ignore the tremor in his muscles. His body was trying to tell him something horrible had happened, while his mind ignored it with dogged determination. He was using the pain medication to block out one ache trying to overwhelm him. The other wasn't so easy.<p>

His father's "death" had enveloped him completely in trauma. He'd understood even before that what a gun was, what bad guys were, and that it was dad's job to fight them. He had comprehended the horror of what had happened, and seen grief and anger overwhelm his mother, and been left sobbing and trembling in unstoppable shock in his upstairs bedroom.

He'd been nearly alone to process the grief, and the terror that the bad guys would come for them next. The adults didn't think he understood exactly what happened, thought that he was too young to grasp it fully enough to feel the pain. He'd recovered, and gone on to say goodbye to home after home, to watch their house burn and his mother try to kill herself. He learned that grief and terror and poverty were part of everyday life, and got very good indeed at shortening that process and bouncing back. Locked in a cell, he'd learned to do it silently and invisibly.

This would be no different. He would lie in bed and shake, and at some point he would cry uncontrollably, and he would very soon get up and on with his life. The trauma, the fear of sudden movements and specific little sounds and tones of voice, would be with him for a while until it wasn't. It was a process he was so familiar he could count down the steps, and he no longer feared it.

Having Peter at his side would help too; the agent had a flawless instinctive grasp on when to push and when to comfort. If a person didn't listen to a word that came out of his mouth, just saw the caring behind his warm brown eyes and the gentle sound of his voice and the comforting strength with which he'd hug Neal...Peter was a safe haven like no other.

And right now, that was breaking his heart. He sniffed. He couldn't stick around for this. He'd remained in prison to give himself a shot at a legitimate life with Kate. He remained in New York because of Peter and the FBI and June and that beautiful apartment. Slowly, something precious had been building here.

Friends. A family. A home.

But he couldn't keep putting himself through this. Four years of prison had taken enough of a toll. It never ended. Working with Peter offered the illusion of freedom and friendship, so long as he didn't think about agent Rice using him like a disposable plastic utensil, or Peter slapping cuffs on him the minute Fowler decided he wasn't a human being but a chess piece.

The one time he'd expected to be treated like a grieving human being who'd just lost the woman he loved to a bomb, he'd been flung back into prison and Peter hadn't even been allowed to call him. Now, his anklet had failed, and he'd been beaten, stabbed, and damn near tortured in response.

Neal started crying. If he kept simply taking this, being a prisoner and being humiliated and used and mistreated and even being held captive by his best friend, he'd end up broken at best and dead at worst. He had to face facts and run, and end this once and for all.

He wouldn't be able to see or even talk to Peter again. Or El, or June, or Clinton or Diana or Sara. He'd never be able to return to his apartment, New York City, or even the United States.

He'd never again be Neal Caffrey. He pressed his face into the pillow and sobbed.

* * *

><p>"Neal, sweetheart?"<p>

El sat down on the bed beside him.

Neal sniffed. "Sorry."

El swung her legs up onto the bed and practically dragged him into her arms. "Sweetie - you are so loved. Don't cry alone."

He pushed against her, crying. He'd never done this, sobbed openly in front of another person. Never experienced being held and caressed while he grieved. Every gentle touch seemed to fuel a new wave of anguished memories and grief for precious things lost, because it held the discovery of a precious thing found.

Peter entered, his awkward uncertainty audible in his faltering approach. Neal choked back his sobs. This was one weakness too much to show Peter, the man who had to rely on him in life or death situations. One thing too much to burden a responsible and compassionate man with.

"It's - okay, Neal." Peter's words were as hesitant as his steps. Neal couldn't help remembering how useless Peter said he felt around sobbing women. Let alone sobbing CIs.

He felt a gentle hand on his back, and Peter sat down beside them. "You don't have to be tough for me."

Neal actually tried to sob again, but couldn't. Tears still trickled from his eyes, but that desperate emotion had dissipated. Part of it was self-inhibition. But even more so was the strength Peter lent with his presence. "I'm tough because of you."

El kissed him on the cheek. "Welcome to the club."

"Neal, you don't have to be brave," said Peter. "You don't have to be anything but you."

He loved the sound of Peter's voice. It was sober and gentle and strong. It was intelligent compassion and understanding.

_"Neal - if we lose him...you're back in. I can't save you."_

One of the most awful things Neal had heard out of Peter at that early point in their friendship. But they'd kept replaying in his head, soothing rather than hurting. His tone of voice had managed to convey how much he knew that it would hurt, and that he felt sincere compassion. That if Peter had to return him to prison, it would be with gentle sadness and friendship. That made it okay. Being sincerely cared about as a feeling human being at that point in time was what soothed his soul more than anything, and Peter's voice would always soothe him.

Peter left his hand on Neal's back, and pressed an ice pack against the worst bruises on his face. El kept holding him, and this was as cherished as Neal could ever remember feeling.

He was physically and emotionally exhausted, the drugs in his system demanding sleep, every drop of emotion wrung from him and leaving him gasping. The physical pain, mild thanks to the Oxycontin in his system, had been worsened by sobbing, and he lacked the strength to move.

He could feel his body being positioned, laying him on his right side, a pillow slipped under his head and a blanket spread over him, and knew what happened next. They would leave him, alone in an upstairs bedroom.

"Please don't leave me," whispered Neal.

She'd never listened.

The Burkes did.

"You want us to sleep with you, Neal?" asked El, stroking his shoulder.

Neal nodded. He had some fuzzy idea he wasn't supposed to say yes, that he would be mad at himself tomorrow, but couldn't be bothered to figure out why or care.

El lay down beside him, at his back, put her arm around his chest, and held him in the gentlest embrace he'd ever experienced. Peter brought pillows and dragged over blankets, and finally lay down on his back near Neal's right.

Something was wrong. El was there, Peter wasn't. There was a gap. Where was he? Neal reached out, found an arm, and tugged.

The warm, solid rock he was looking for scooted closer, and he extended his arm across Peter's chest so as not to loose track of him again, pressed his face against Peter's shoulder, and that was the last thing he was aware of until morning.


	11. Fear Among Friends

"Um - did I start sobbing last night and demand you guys sleep with me? I really hope I'm remembering that wrong."

Peter grinned. "You really are very cuddly when you're drugged."

"I haven't had a sleepover pajama party since I was twelve," said El. "This was fun, except for the part where you almost died yesterday."

Neal let out a whimper of despair. And to his dismay, caught himself smiling. He couldn't recall having a more wonderful night's sleep in his entire life.

"You are not even remotely allowed to be embarrassed," said El.

A familiar name was uttered on the TV running in the background, and Neal snapped his head around. "- found murdered in a high-security federal prison this morning. Mr. Grossman was convicted on charges of tax fraud, racketeering, and attempted murder after an extensive FBI investigation. Unnamed sources inside the prison have speculated that the killing was a revenge murder carried out by the Sicilian mob."

"That was our case." Peter, too, was staring at the screen. "He threatened to have us both killed when we arrested him, remember?"

Neal nodded. "I wonder if there's still a hit out on me this morning."

Peter stared him down with a hard set to his jaw. "Neal, did you have_ anything_ to do with this murder?"

"No." Neal's voice came out squeaky. "No. I swear." He felt lightheaded.

Peter reached out and touched Neal's upper arm with the back of his hand. "I believe you."

Neal looked away. "I didn't know the guy was mafia. He never asked to be born into that world. He was just a terrified and completely heartbroken, sweet kid who wanted to die."

Peter tried to blink the emotion out of his eyes. "I remember when you were the sweet, terrified, heartbroken kid in a cell."

Neal gripped a fistful of the blankets. "Yeah. There's no way I don't help someone who's going through that."

_And that doesn't change the fact that a man was just murdered because of me. Or that inmates were injured and probably severely mistreated for protecting me._

"Neal." Peter's voice was sharp, and his gaze was stern. "What happens as a result of your bad acts, that's on you. And is that ever a lesson you need to learn. As long as you keep running with scissors, people are gonna get cut. Not just you. But the bad acts of other people're on them. You don't get to blame yourself for what they do."

"Get to?" muttered Neal. Peter didn't have the most finely honed sense of the dark.

"Yes, get to. Because that way you get to take responsibility for something you know in your heart you didn't do, and get to dodge your real culpability."

"Hon?" El looked horrified.

"It's okay," said Neal. Peter's words stung, but his honesty cut both ways. When Peter extended comfort and reassurance, it was to be trusted.

And unfortunately, he was right.

El leaned down and kissed Neal on the forehead. Then she kissed Peter. "I have to go into work now. You boys take good care of each other."

* * *

><p>There was a tight knot in Neal's stomach that wouldn't go away. His heart was beating too fast, and his breathing was too slow. He couldn't relax, for all the mental gymnastics he put himself through.<p>

_You're safe._

_You're out of there._

_You're not going back._

_It's not going to happen again._

_You'd survive if it did._

His chest hurt, too. Everything hurt. It hurt to move. Hurt to hold still.

And when Peter walked into the room, it was like seeing a life raft in the middle of a raging ocean.

"Help." Neal's plea wasn't premeditated, it just came out.

Peter gave him a steady, gentle look, squeezed his shoulder, and sat down on the bed next to him. "Scared?"

Neal nodded. "Not logically."

"It is logical, with what you've been through," said Peter. "And with a background of four years in a prison at the mercy of other people."

Neal's blood pressure spiked, and the knot in his already aching stomach made him gasp. He tried to force himself to remember the good people, the decent everyday life and routine at the prison. It usually worked, but right now everything was twisted and all he felt was fear. All he felt was the sickness of vulnerability and the pain of being yanked into an alterate dimension of cruelty.

_Ow._

He gasped at the physical pain and dizziness. Peter put a hand on his arm, a blessedly warm, steady feeling. "Have you been taking your pain meds?" asked Peter.

_Huh?_

Oh.

"I - was stressing out - I kinda forgot. That's maybe why everything I think makes me hurt."

Peter stood up. "Did that - that didn't make any sense, did it?" asked Neal.

"It made perfect sense," said Peter. He fetched water and the orange prescription bottles, and helped Neal take his pills.

"I feel sick," said Neal. "I might throw those up. I'm sorry, don't know why this is -"

"Shush," interrupted Peter. "You're badly beat up. You were tortured. You've been stabbed, you almost died from blood loss, and you've undergone emergency surgery. Everything's gonna suck right now. You need to stay on your meds, 'cause the last thing you need is to feel any more pain 'n you absolutely have to."

Neal nodded, and took a deep breath, releasing it in relief. It was too soon for the meds to have kicked in, but the presence of the one person he trusted with his soul was easing some of the worst of it.

"Now," said Peter, setting the pill bottles aside and putting his hand on Neal's shoulder blade and rubbing it with calm reassurance.

"I hate being vulnerable," Neal blurted. "I never - want to be under anyone's power ever again. I'm going to scream the next time someone handcuffs me. I'm so afraid I'm gonna throw up on their shoes and punch them right in the face because I can't handle the idea of going through this again or even letting myself be put in a position where it's a possibility, and of course that's the one thing I could do that'd actually give them a real reason to beat the hell out of me."

Neal gulped, and he was so dizzy, and weak, and sick at the memories that he felt himself loose control of his body and just sort of wobble. He wanted to scream. He'd left this behind, and here it was haunting him again, happening all over again.

He felt a hand on each of his shoulders, and Peter tugging him against his upper body and holding him. Just short of passing out, he leaned against that support for all he was worth, thankfully saved by it from oblivion. It hurt, and he was sick, and dizzy, and he moaned desperate desire for it all to stop.

"Are you okay?" asked Peter, his voice quiet.

Neal nodded yes, and decided moving his head was a very bad idea.

Peter patted his shoulder, and it was the most reassuring sensation in the world. "I don't think you hate being vulnerable any more'n the average person. I think you handle it really well. I think you just hate being vulnerable to assholes and sadists."

"Thass true," said Neal, becoming aware that he was in Peter's arms, physically incapacitated and emotionally crippled. His deepest fears laid raw in front of his boss and the man who held him prisoner and was protecting him from being re-arrested. That was vulnerable all right.

And it was okay.

"You ever get - just scared of the world?" asked Neal.

Peter nodded. "At times like this...yes. Terrified." He paused for a minute. "I get really shaken when it's guys on my side of the fence doing - horrible, criminal things."

"I don't want to die in jail," said Neal. "I don't want to die alone or in handcuffs or being beaten. I'm not that afraid to die, but - I want it to be fast, or at least with a friend there to hold me."

Peter held him.

"Are you afraid to die?" asked Neal.

"I don't want to die," said Peter. "But I don't think anyone who's truly afraid of death lasts long in a job where 'might get violently murdered' is one of the hazards."

"So what do you fear?" asked Neal.

"Lots of things. Anything happening to El, or you, or any of my people. Shooting some innocent guy holding a cell phone. Wrongly convicting someone. Being tortured, dying in a fire - what happened to you the other day encapsulates a lot of my fears. Horrible cruelty for no reason, especially inflicted on a good person. Having that done to someone I love is one of my biggest fears, and it just happened."

"Scared?" asked Neal, his voice soft.

"Yeah," said Peter.

"You think you ever have sent an innocent person to prison?" asked Neal. "Because I promise you, I did time with some innocent men. You think violent crime is bad? Try what it does to someone to be wrongly convicted."

Peter shivered. "I really, truly don't think so. The cases I've had any doubt about, at all, and even the ones I was certain of but the suspect maintained their innocence, I spent countless late nights digging and double-checking."

"What if it'd stuck when Fowler framed me?"

Peter met his gaze. "If you looked me in the eye and swore you didn't do it, and continued to do so, I would have never stopped digging until I found evidence to exonerate you. I can't swear I'd have believed you, but I would've gone to the ends of the earth regardless."

Neal looked back at Peter for a long time. He needed to believe that. There was a small part of him that was afraid of Peter. This was the man who had hunted him without remorse. Who had put him in prison, and could do so again with a single phone call. Who had arrested him when he was innocent, with as little hesitation as when he was guilty. Who could and would shoot him or beat the hell out of him if circumstances ever came to that.

Peter was larger, stronger, tougher, harder, and in some ways, smarter than he was. Maybe that was why it melted Neal when FBI Special Agent Peter Burke treated him as a friend. Prey didn't expect compassion and gentleness from the predator who had him pinned by the throat.

Peter saw the fear, and reached out and touched the side of Neal's face. "I take no pleasure in locking you up, Neal."

Neal had to smile, in relief and amusement. That was deeply true, and shallowly...not.

"Yeah, you do. Gleeful bastard."

Peter grinned too. "You're just so much _fun_ to catch."

"You could try a little harder not to smirk every single time you put that anklet on me," teased Neal.

"I'll do that the day you stop being the smuggest man alive," Peter countered.

Neal tapped his head. "Think I know when this happened."

"I didn't want to ask..." said Peter, his face going serious again.

"It was the first time I'd experienced real violence up close and personal. Everyone told me what changed in me was shock, then they said it was trauma, and then it was just who I was. At first they called me a brave kid, then I grew up and it was reckless and foolhardy. Personally, I just thought I'd learned to cope with life."

"You wanna talk about the incident?" asked Peter.

Neal hesitated. "Maybe - yes. But not now."

"Okay. I'm here any time."

Neal chuckled. "That hurt you to say, didn't it?"

Peter shrugged and gave him a sheepish look. "Investigator is just a word for nosy guy with badge."

"This whole brain damage thing...it's scary. I've spent my life trying to find love, and friendship, and financial security, and to learn and be - I know I'm smart and artistic, I never wanted to waste that, and I don't know if you believe me but I do want to be a good person. And now I'm Neal Caffrey, brain damaged criminal and cowering victim with - really few friends. Right now I feel about five minutes from living on a street corner drawing pictures on cardboard for loose change."

His stomach remembered it had gotten holes punched in it and been cut open, and his back arched in response to a powerful spasm of pain. That made all of his other aching muscles complain too, and he gritted his teeth.

"Hang in there," said Peter. "It won't hurt forever."

"This?" asked Neal. "Or everything else?"

"Look. You are a brain damaged criminal, and you can be a real idiot."

"You should do TED talks. That's how inspirational you are."

"But you're nowhere close to friendless on a street corner - was gonna be my point," said Peter. "Finding this out about your brain doesn't change who you are, it's just a tool to maybe understand yourself a bit."

"If I - if it explains my behavior, but doesn't excuse it, does that mean I can make myself be normal?"

Peter chewed on that one for a minute. "You really wanna be normal?"

"No," admitted Neal.

* * *

><p>When Peter answered the doorbell, he found Diana with another FBI agent. "Peter, this is Agent Dan Fisher. He's working the Rikers case."<p>

Peter brought them in and served coffee. "What's the news?"

Fisher grimaced. He was a lean and serious fellow whose military haircut looked out of place against a pair of professorial glasses. "It's a tough case when everyone involved's spectacularly unlikable. The city's throwing an everloving fit over the investigation and the police commissioner's warning us it's goodbye NYPD cooperation if we pursue it. They want this to be about the other inmates that got hurt, because they're all violent guys with long rap sheets."

"In other words, people a jury won't want to side with," said Peter.

"Correct. They're also going after Caffrey. They wanted his work release revoked for getting arrested and provoking violence at the jail, and your boss and mine managed to block that. But they are considering charging him with aggravated assault for kicking an inmate, and accessory to assault for causing the fight which led to the injury of several guards."


	12. Fault Lines

"_What?_" Peter stood, fists clenched.

"Boss." Diana stopped Peter with a light touch on the arm, and he sat.

Fisher adjusted his glasses and gave Peter an uneasy glance. "City's hoping to get Caffrey to dismiss in return for dropping those charges."

"I can't believe this," said Peter.

"You can't believe a prosecutor would maliciously over-charge to force a deal?" asked Fisher, rolling his eyes. "How long you been an agent again?"

"No prosecutor I've ever worked with has over-charged a _violent crime victim_ to make him drop charges against his attackers," retorted Peter.

"There haven't been any warrants issued," said Fisher. He wasn't exactly the warmest guy, but Peter got the impression he was intelligent. "If we handle the posturing right, there won't be. I wouldn't worry Caffrey yet."

"Okay," said Peter. He sat back and contented himself with the mental image of walking into the police commissioner's office and punching the guy until his knuckles bled.

Diana's face tightened. "Boss...if criminal charges against me were being considered, I'd want to know."

Peter shook his head. "Neal runs when things get bad. He's already scared and hurting. He had to contemplate goin' back there, he'd kill himself trying to get away."

Diana gave Fisher a look that foretold his grisly murder should he betray her trust. "If you aren't giving him the chance to protect himself, you damn well better make sure he never has to."

Fisher shifted uncomfortably and glanced around the room for an escape. Finding none, he adjusted his glasses again. "I'm here because we're considering a deal of our own, but considering how seriously Caffrey was victimized, we want his blessing before we offer immunity to one of those guards."

"Which one?" asked Peter. He thought of the guy who'd locked him in the cell and tensed.

"His name is Ken Stanford. He claims not to have hurt Caffrey." Fisher dug a tablet out of his leather messenger bag, and showed him a photo. Peter didn't recognize the man.

"Claims? You got evidence?" asked Peter.

Fisher sighed and brought up a video file. He handed Peter the tablet. "Most of the cameras and recording equipment out there are in really bad shape. There actually were cameras running on most of this, but we don't have a lot. The images cut in and out, there are blind spots, flickering, guards are hard to identify...we could really use this guy's testimony."

Peter reached his finger for the play button, but Diana stopped him with another soft touch.

"Boss - I've seen this footage." Diana sounded a little shaky. "You can tell it's Neal. I'm as hardened as you are, and I'm suggesting you don't watch it. I never wanted to see or hear our friend like this."

Peter hardened his jaw. "I have to be the one to help him through the aftermath. I need to have seen it."

Diana nodded, and squeezed his arm. This time, she didn't let go. But she looked away when Peter tapped play.

Peter set the tablet aside when it was finished, and Diana rubbed his shoulder. The footage from the yard that Reese had shown him hadn't disturbed him. But Neal lying naked on a cement floor, Neal clawing at the floor in agony while he was beaten, Neal being punched in the stomach for politely asking permission to call Peter, Neal screaming and pleading while he was tortured with pepper spray - those were images that scarred his soul.

Peter stood. "I have to go see Neal."

He climbed the stairs and knelt down beside the bed, not caring that Neal could see the tears in his eyes. "I just saw the CCTV footage."

Neal closed his eyes, and tears started leaking from their corners. "Peter."

Peter wrapped his arms around Neal's upper body, and touched his forehead to Neal's. "I'm sorry, Neal. It'll never be okay, and I'm sorry."

They couldn't file charges against this guy. A sweet human being they'd beaten bloody, who'd spent the night literally clinging to him and his wife for comfort and reassurance. They just couldn't. Even considering it or threatening it was pure evil.

Neal wrapped his arms around Peter's back with soft affection, and almost timid hesitation. There was a part of Neal who was never sure of his footing around Peter on a good day, let alone when his foundation had just been cracked with batons.

"Last night, it was okay," whispered Neal, hiding his face against Peter's arm, barely breathing, his body stiff. This was a combination of deep trust and, Peter finally realized, fear. Peter was law enforcement. Peter could hurt him. And with a few words, send him back behind bars.

Not only that, but Neal's worst fears were founded. He could conceivably be arrested and returned to Rikers, and the reception would be an ugly one.

"I will sleep, eat, and work beside you and protect you until one day you feel safe again," promised Peter.

_And if they come for him?_ a sick-feeling little voice inside the pit of his stomach asked. _How are you going to stop them, and how will Neal ever feel safe or trust again? If he even survives?_

Then he knew, and felt like he'd been kicked in the heart. _He'll escape, and you'll never see or hear from him again._

"Please don't run away from this, Neal," said Peter, running his fingers through the tangle of dark, wavy hair. Neal looked at him, startled, eyes wide.

Peter's stomach sank. Neal had already been contemplating running. "Try an' have the courage and trust in humanity to see this through."

_Coward. Say it, if you're asking Neal to put his damn life on the line._

"If you run, it'll break my heart," said Peter, trying and failing to keep his voice from cracking. "I - would grieve more than you can possibly imagine."

Neal looked at him with such searing grief, it took Peter's breath away. "I don't want to."

"Then don't," said Peter. "Give - real human bonds a chance. Stay and fight for who an' what you want to be. It's worth it. I swear to you, it's worth it."

Neal's face was swollen from darkening bruises, and there was stubble on his chin. His blue eyes were bright with tears, glazed from drugs and pain. They seemed to have somehow lost color.

"Okay," Neal said, his voice thick with emotion. "But if you saw the tape - you know now it was my fault."

"Tape's pretty sketchy. How was it your fault?" asked Peter. He already knew about the phone, but he was curious how Neal would tell the story.

"I borrowed a guard's phone...without his consent. They found it on a pat search. They - beat the hell out of me for it, and things went downhill from there."

Neal pushed against Peter and grabbed a handful of shirt. "That - beating was the worst part, that and being dragged - with the pepper spray - I expect thugs to be thugs. But with the guards - it took all I had not to just start crying."

"Oh, Neal."

Peter had to take a minute to compose himself. He stroked the side of Neal's face with his thumb, finding the few areas that weren't bruised red and purple, and ran his fingers through his friend's hair. He didn't really know what he was doing, just that he had no way to fight the damage done by cruelty other than to do the opposite.

Neal closed his eyes, and the tension in his muscles eased. He released Peter's shirt and just left a hand on his back. For someone who so cherished physical contact, it must have hurt on a whole other level to be struck, and touched and held for the purpose of inflicting pain.

Peter drew a deep breath. "That was dumb, lifting the phone. But it doesn't come close to justifying - when I had you in interrogation, you smuggled in a key, stole my watch and tried to take the table apart. I would no sooner have beaten you for that than I would shoot myself in the head. If you took my phone, I probably would have swatted you with it. Gently. Just because you're you. Anyone else, anyone I didn't like, I'd just roll my eyes and put it back in my pocket."

Neal smiled, with sincere affection. "Yeah, but you're awesome. I'm not dumb enough to do that around most guys."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Did the CO whose phone you lifted seem awesome?"

Neal regarded him with a sheepish expression. "No. I was bored. And a little pissed off. Because one of them punched me for asking to call you."

"Wow. You really are brain damaged." Peter was careful to inject the harsh words with teasing playfulness.

"I know, right?" Neal's expression was open, and thoughtful. "I've never made sense, even to myself. My exact thought as I did that was, 'This is dumb.' I actually knew I'd get beaten senseless if they caught me, but - I was bored."

Peter reached for the tablet. "Was one of the COs a guy named Ken Stanford?"

Neal frowned. "Dunno."

Peter handed him the tablet with the image on screen. "Recognize him?"

Neal nodded. "He was on the team that searched me after the beating. Didn't hurt me, he actually helped me a bit with getting dressed and standing while they fingerprinted me."

"Investigators want to give him immunity for his testimony. But they want to know if you'd be okay with that, if he abused you or..."

"He didn't," said Neal. "I think he was the most decent guy I dealt with there. I'm fine with a deal, I'd kind of hate to see him punished."

"Okay." Peter set the tablet aside. "Just watching that footage - when your anklet went offline, I freaked out. I imagined you running, kidnapped, injured - but what scared me the most was thinking you'd run and wind up in the hands of a foreign justice system that would mistreat you."

"Ha, ha," muttered Neal with dark sarcasm.

"I never, never thought something would happen to you right here in New York that'd make Amnesty International cry."

Diana gave the open door a quiet knock, and Neal startled. But he broke into a wide grin when he spotted her. She started putting things on the nightstand. "Cheesy get well soon card, check. Even cheesier get well soon balloons, check. Flowers, check."

"Diana. I didn't peg you for being so traditional." Neal's eyes were sparkling, and Peter could swear their color was coming back.

She put a wrapped box in his hands. "Booze-filled chocolates, check." Then a bottle wrapped in colored foil. "Chocolate-filled booze, check."

Neal started chuckling, and reached for her hand. She leaned over and hugged him, pressing her cheek against his. Neal hugged her fiercely in return. "Thank you."

She straightened, squeezed his shoulder, and vanished into the hall only to reappear seconds later holding a plush black cat that had to be four feet long from nose to tail. It was wearing a bandit mask made from a paisley handkerchief, and attached to its white starched collar was a sack filled with chocolate coins wrapped in gold.

She plunked it down on his chest, and despite his halfhearted, beaming wiggles of protest, tucked one paw across each of his shoulders.

"Hey!" Neal's mock complaint was cut short when the cat's head fell on his nose.

Diana planted her hands on her hips. "I read that one in four adult men sleep with a stuffed animal. Now it can be one in one Neal Caffreys. Enjoy your cat burglar."

Neal reached up and scratched it behind the ear. "I'm in love. Thanks - Diana."

* * *

><p>Peter was sound asleep that night when an alert on his phone jerked him awake. He checked it, and his stomach sank.<p>

Neal's anklet was offline.


	13. Arsenic and Creamer

Peter rapped on the door and opened it. "Neal?"

"Rrm...umph? Mm?"

Peter grinned in relief.

"Neal, your anklet is offline." Peter spoke in a soft voice in the quiet night. "May I turn the light on?"

"Uh? Umph - yeah. Wha?"

There were two heads sticking out from under the blankets. Neal was on his side hugging Diana's cat burglar tight to his body, its head tucked under his chin. He was unabashedly cuddling the thing.

Peter stood at the side of the bed. "Show it to me."

A very sleepy Neal stuck his ankle out from under the covers. His eyes widened in dismay when he realized Peter had just caught him clinging to a stuffed cat. "Behold, the criminal mastermind," he muttered. "The mighty lion-tamer of Sing Sing. I feed it the bones of my enemies."

Peter smiled. "Remember about not being embarrassed?"

"It's the drugs," said Neal with a spark of humor in his voice, not actually trying to sell it.

"Uh-huh," said Peter. "You're adorable."

Neal gave a theatrical groan and hid his face in the fur of his new best friend. "Never living this week down. _Ever_."

Peter checked the anklet. The indicator light was off. He gave Neal a gentle pat on the ankle, and sat down in a chair by the bed. Neal stuck out his hand out from under the covers, and Peter squeezed it.

Peter's phone was going nuts. After reassuring Hughes, Jones, and the Marshal's office, he texted a request for a GPS watch and a couple probies to monitor it. Neal sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"Wanna drag yourself downstairs?" asked Peter. "There's gonna be people showing up to investigate."

"I'll come down." Neal's voice was oddly sober. He took a wistful look around the room, gave the cat burglar a pat on the head, and drew in a deep breath.

"You okay?"

"If the system's having real problems, they're going to put me back in prison until they work it out," said Neal. "I'm just - saying goodbye."

"No. Neal, no," said Peter, feeling a tug of incredible sadness. Neal could be so heartbreakingly accepting, the result of a good nature and years stripped of free will. It'd always baffled him how Neal could both accept consequences and be deeply hurt by them, yet show no inclination whatsoever to change or learn from the pain he inflicted on himself.

Now he understood. There really was a glitch in his friend's brain, an actual, physical injury behind the incomprehensible behavior.

"I won't leave your side," Peter promised. "The absolute worst thing I will let anyone do to you is transfer you to the FBI, and if that happens, I'm bringing you an air mattress and warm blankets and sleeping at the door."

* * *

><p>They got Neal downstairs and he was brewing coffee by the time the doorbell started ringing. Peter turned away various and assorted NYPD officers until he found two people he was willing to let into his house and within ten yards of Neal.<p>

One was an NYPD detective, a petite woman in her forties with short red hair and a sharp, hard face softened by a perceptive and friendly expression. The other was Gary Wills from the US Marshals. Wills had not only been kind to Neal, he'd showed up at the hospital to check on him. None the less, a stern warning was in order.

Peter stood blocking the door with a wide stance, with Satchmo at his side reserving the right to wag or not wag his tail. "This is Neal Caffrey, my partner and my friend," said Peter. "Last time the anklet failed, he was thrown in Riker's, stabbed three times and beaten so badly the doctor said it looked like he'd been hit by a car. He's drugged and recovering from emergency surgery."

"Ouch," said the detective, grimacing. She extended her hand. "Megan Landry. I'll leave once I know Caffrey's secured, I don't want any part of this clusterfuck."

Peter shook hands. "Peter Burke, FBI."

"Fuck," muttered Detective Landry. "I'm at enemy headquarters."

"You be kind," Peter warned them again, stepping back from the door and waving them in. "This is a crime victim facing exactly what got him hurt last time."

Gary Wills looked annoyed, sleepy, and a little hurt. "I dragged myself out of bed to handle this personally when I saw his name. I'm still having nightmares about the scene in Rikers, so don't treat me like I'm here to have at 'im with a rubber hose."

Peter put his hands in his pockets and looked down. "Sorry. You two like some coffee?"

Landry looked uneasy. "As long as it's got a minimal arsenic content, and maybe some creamer."

"How do you feel about strychnine?" asked Peter.

"You two scare me," said Wills with an affable smile. Satchmo nosed his head into the Marshal's hand for a pat. "I'd love coffee."

"What's happening to my anklets?" asked Neal. "It's not me, I swear."

"Tracking system took a giant shit," said Wills. He joined Neal on the couch and set a black plastic case on the floor. "We lost connection to about six hundred people across the country. Last time, the techs told us it was a glitch in the satellite relay, an' they supposedly fixed it."

"Good job," said Neal dryly.

"Yeahhhhhhh. I don't think I got the same definition of fixed as they do," said Wills.

Peter brought them coffee, and Wills took swapped out Neal's dead anklet with a new one from the case. It blinked on with a reassuring green light.

Thirty seconds later, it went black. Wills shoulders slumped, and he gave Peter and Neal a hopeless look. Neal bit his lower lip and looked away.

"I'm so sorry," said the US Marshal. "This is not your fault, but we do have to take you into custody. If you're not on the anklet, you gotta be locked up."

"Not gonna happen," said Peter flatly. "He can stay here at the house, I'll sleep outside the bedroom door."

"It's the law, Agent Burke." Wills' voice was gentle, and he was looking at Neal with sincere concern.

Detective Landry was almost wide-eyed with alarm. "Not sure either of you get how pissed-off my department is at Caffrey and the FBI. He goes into custody - you didn't hear me say this, but it damn well better be federal," she warned.

Peter contained a shiver. Landry struck him as a decent person, and her acute discomfort at even being in his house was a warning of how hostile the NYPD was right now.

"That bad?" asked Peter.

"I was only half kidding about the arsenic," said Detective Landry, swirling the coffee in her cup and giving it a suspicious sniff.

"I can pull his anklet any time," said Peter. "I took it off when he went into the ER and didn't put it back on until he was discharged. That's my discretion as his handler."

"It is," admitted Wills. "But this isn't a matter of your discretion, it's a system malfunction and under the law he's returned to secure custody if we can't provide compliance monitoring."

"Sounds fair," said Peter sarcastically.

Wills gave Neal a sincerely sympathetic glance. "He's not entitled to fair. He's an inmate on provisional work release, being on the outside is a privilege. One we're gonna have to revoke temporarily."

Peter's stomach sank. He'd prefer an over-reaching asshole he could throw out of the house. Wills was professional, intelligent, and on the right side of the law.

Peter tried another tactic. "When we send him undercover, we have him wear a watch that transmits a live feed and GPS location. I've already called in for one to take over for the anklet for now."

Wills frowned. "The anklet sounds an alarm if its taken off. Does the watch?"

"No."

"So how do you keep him from ditching the watch and slipping away?"

"We trust him," said Peter bluntly. "He values that trust, and he values staying out of prison. We also keep one hell of a tight leash on him."

The NYPD detective cleared her throat. "This could sound a little harsh, but when someone is in custody at a hospital, we use a cuff or leg iron to secure them to the bed and put a guard at the door. We could do that here. It's not necessarily unpleasant."

Peter winced. "First, Neal's an escape artist -"

"I am," said Neal proudly. "I'd be loose before I even went to sleep."

"-and second, he has nasty bruises, cuts, and nerve damage from the last time he was restrained. His doctor flat-out ordered us not to cuff him."

"Oh, everyone claims-"

"He's not claiming," Peter snapped, cutting her off. "I peeled those things off my best friend's raw flesh myself while he tried not to scream. Caffrey's tough as all hell. This is real."

"I'm so sorry." Landry sounded genuinely rebuked, and looked at Neal with intense apology in her expression.

"Listen," said Peter. "We need to be human beings. Trust me, I care about this man enough to make sure he doesn't escape. Use the watch. I'll sleep outside the door."

"Guys," Neal interjected. "I've been beat up so bad it hurts to move my eyelids. It took two people to get me downstairs. I'm on narcotics and antibiotics and barbiturates and muscle relaxants, and I can barely stay awake. My handler is the person I trust most in this world, and he's offering me solace and protection here. If I were out there right now, my one goal would be to make it to this house."

The Marshal sighed, tightened his lips, and placed a compassionate hand on Neal's arm. "Caffrey, I feel for you. Really. I'm not just saying that. And on behalf of every decent and caring person in law enforcement, I apologize for what was done to you in Riker's. That this FBI agent cares so much about you and trusts you as his partner says amazing things, and I don't think you're a bad guy."

Neal sighed, and gave him a soft look of understanding and even affection. "But."

"You broke out of maximum-security prison. Then you made front-page headlines escaping custody yet again. By your own admission, you're an escape artist. As someone whose job it is to secure federal prisoners, I can't let you be unmonitored. That means locking you up. I'm sorry, really, but tonight you're going to have to lie in the bed you made for yourself. We'll all bend over backwards to make this a comfortable and safe thing for you."

Neal closed his eyes. "I understand."

Peter knelt down beside Wills, who still had his hand on Neal's arm. Peter placed his own hand on top of it.

"I understand too," said Peter, keeping his voice and body language as kind as his. "But I can't let you take him. I won't. I will do anything you ask including staying up all night and watching him sleep. But Neal is not going to jail tonight."

"Peter - it's okay," said Neal. He was struggling to keep his eyes open and his head upright. "As long as you don't put me back in Rikers, I'll be fine."

"We won't," said the Marshal. "This will be done with compassion, I promise."

"No," said Peter. "Neal Caffrey's in my custody, which makes his well-being my responsibility. Stress aside, it'd put him in a ton of pain just being moved. He's trying to cooperate with us with a hell of a lot of courage. But he can't defend himself legally, mentally, or physically right now, so it's my duty to protect him."

The doorbell rang again, and El let in a young FBI agent holding a box. "Agent Burke asked for a GPS-enabled recording transmitter watch?"

Peter took it from him. "I did. You set up to monitor?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay. Thanks."

The agent left, and Peter handed Neal the watch. He had a moment's anxiety about whether it would fit over the bandage on Neal's wrist, but Neal slipped it on easily.

Peter turned back to Gary Wills. "This man walked out the front door of a supermax. But he stays with me on an anklet scissors can cut. Believe me, I can keep him secured, and it won't take restraints."

"What'll it take?" asked Landry, frowning.

"Looking my friend in the eye and saying I'm counting on 'im," said Peter.

Wills sighed, and looked back and forth between Peter and Neal with growing affection and respect. "Let me call my supervisor. Sit here with Caffrey, it's going to take a while to get in touch with him at home."

"Okay," said Peter.

Detective Landry finished her coffee and stood. "Not that I haven't enjoyed my time behind enemy lines, but I don't think I'm needed here."

She hesitated, then faced Neal and really looked at him for the first time. "I'm sorry. Nobody deserves what you went through."

Neal looked touched. "Thank you. You have a good night, Megan."

Landry's reserved expression crumbled, and Peter bit back a grin. Neal had felled another one.

Neal's head kept sagging, he was trying so hard to stay awake. "Lean on me if you want,' said Peter. He wanted to put his arm around Neal's shoulders and just hold him, but he didn't want to strain Neal's already battered pride around strangers.

Neal relaxed against Peter's side, and Peter did the next best thing by propping his arm across the back of the couch and giving Neal a brief pat on the shoulder.

"They aren't going to approve it," said Neal. He sounded sober, but calm. "It's okay. Sing Sing isn't warm and fuzzy, but I'll be fine in there."

He gave Peter a sideways glance. "Can - you take me in, though?" He looked and sounded calm, but a tiny tremor started in his muscles when he said that.

"No," said Peter. "Already told you that's not happening. Worst case, we both pack a bag and spend the night camping in the FBI holding area. I'm just not suggesting that because they'll take it, and we all want to stay home if we can."

Neal gave him a skeptical look.

"Hey. You are _not_ going to prison tonight. I promise."

Neal closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of contentment. A minute later, they opened again. "Thanks for being - such good friend."

Peter gave in and hugged him tight against his side, and rubbed his shoulder. After what he'd been through, being caught cuddling with an FBI agent probably didn't rank high on the chart of humiliating things. "I'm sorry you've - experienced so many awful things that were out of your control."

"I'm not 'zactly unique in that," Neal pointed out. "Is unique to have - wolds - worlds awesimist FBI agent - "

By the time the Marshal came back, Neal was sound asleep against Peter's side, and Peter had his arm tucked protectively around his shoulders. Wills entered looking grim and determined, but his face filled with compassion when he saw them. He closed his eyes, then after a moment threw his hands up in the air in defeat.

"All right. Fine," said Wills. "I can't reach my supervisor, and I'm not very well gonna slap cuffs on you both and drag you out of here. I give up. Have a good night, and don't let him out of your sight."

Peter's muscles unwound in relief. "Thank you."

"Caffrey."

Neal forced his eyes open.

"I'm putting my career on the line for you here," said Wills.

"I won't betray that," said Neal. "I promise." The Marshal nodded once and headed for the door.

"Gary."

Wills turned back to face Neal.

"Thanks." Neal's voice was soft and his expression sincere. "I appreciate kindness from law enforcement very much right now."

* * *

><p>Neal tensed when El walked in with a blanket, but raised his head with a smile when he opened his eyes and realized it was her.<p>

Peter nudged him and spoke quietly. "Neal, meet the person_ I_ trust with my soul. This is the person_ I_ go to when I need refuge from the world."

El gave Peter a look of pure love, then looked just as gently at Neal, draping the blanket over him and tucking it around his shoulders. She plainly recognized, as Peter had, that Neal was too weak at the moment to make it back upstairs.

"May I sit down next to you?" she asked him.

Neal nodded, and she sat down close to Neal's side. Watching both Neal and Peter closely for signs of discomfort, she rubbed his shoulder, and when he relaxed, started gently stroking the back of his head and neck. A few minutes later, she was snuggled up against Neal's side, her head leaning against Peter's arm.

On impulse and instinct, Peter unbuckled the band of the watch and slipped it off Neal's wrist. _Tonight, you're not a prisoner. You're family._ Neal heaved a deep sigh and went as limp as a living person could, falling asleep between two people who cared about him.


	14. A Lousy Sadist

**PETER**

Neal wasn't biting on even the most fascinating cases Peter dangled in front of him like carrots, hoping for a spark of life. Drugs, pain, trauma...Peter knew all the reasons that of course, Neal wouldn't be himself.

But this was just - awful. Neal wasn't joking. Neal, whose coping mechanism was humor. He wasn't talking, beyond impeccably polite "please," and "thank you"s. His eyes were dull and lacking in expression. Even when awake, he lay motionless and silent in bed.

* * *

><p><strong>NEAL<strong>

Neal tried to distract himself from the fear. Fear was a thing he rarely felt, even when he was genuinely in danger. It was part of the whole brain-damaged sociopath thing, he supposed.

But when he did fear, it wasn't one situation but of all of them. Of the world, of humanity.

His most effective antidote had always been thinking of the overall positive trends in human civilization, and recalling the good people and kindness and love he'd encountered in his life. Remembering that the horror stories were often exactly that, stories, and what he actually encountered tended to be rather delightful.

It usually worked.

But the rare times it didn't were misery.

He listened to Peter's soft voice, and tried to think of Mozzie and June and Peter and El and Diana and Clinton and even cranky Reese Hughes, and the goodness in them. When he thought about prison, he tried to remember dear friends among his fellow inmates, camaraderie and humor. He tried to remember honest and caring COs, and their sincere kindness to him.

The sheer cruelty all around him made him sick. He'd watched his own family disintegrate. He'd seen a man shot dead in front of him for thinking he might have left a passport behind. In prison, he learned to listen unflinching to the boasts of his fellow inmates about the horrible things they'd done to people, and could only hope desperately that most of it was fantasy. He'd been the target of violent sadists, and heard fellow inmates screaming and crying, going insane in a cell with nobody to care. He'd watched one of the most decent guards in the place get hit in the face with shit and semen, and found him crying in a hallway later that day.

All he had to do was open a paper or turn on the TV or get arrested to see it everywhere him. He was scared. Just dreadfully scared to exist.

Scared to be alive.

And now, scared of his own brain. His actions had triggered all of this.

His own father had been a murderer.

* * *

><p><strong>PETER<strong>

The day hadn't started that way. It was day four after the attack, and the first time he'd been able to shower after surgery. Neal had been downright excited, even beat the Burkes out of bed and into the bathroom.

Peter sat down in a chair beside the bed. He was determined to get through to Neal one way or another. "You know I'm here for you, right?" he prodded.

"Yes," came the polite, toneless reply.

"I know you're suffering. I know it's not just physical, but - if you're in pain, we should have the docs give you something stronger. We can find a therapist for you to talk to. Private, no records to the FBI or the BOP."

"I'll get over it. Thank you." Neal seemed to shrink, and grow even stiller.

"Will you talk to me?" asked Peter. He looked at Neal, remembered how close he'd come to dying. How close it'd come to losing a man he cherished. "Please." His voice broke.

Neal was silent.

"Neal."_ I love you. I'm worried about you._

He was enduring, nothing more. No emotion, no movement, no reaction beyond those horribly polite words. A shiver ran down Peter's arms. Neal had learned this behavior in prison.

How to hide even overwhelming emotion, to avoid betraying any hint of vulnerability. How to shut down in order to endure the intolerable. How to respond politely to avoid aggression from the guards. How to shrink into himself when trapped in a cell.

How to suffer in silence.

"Neal, you're not in prison."

"I know. Thank you for opening your home to me." Still flat. Still nothing.

Peter wondered if he should be trying to break a coping mechanism. If he took down this wall, Neal might just suffer more. He reached for an ice pack. They'd taken the doctor's advice and bought a case.

No. Neal _was_ suffering, probably intensely. It was an ingrained reaction to shut down and hide. But if he never showed when he was hurting, that meant he would never be supported when he needed it most.

He activated the cold pack, eased away the old melted one, and slipped the new one into place against the worst of the bruising covering Neal's left cheek and eye and nose. Ice and the cat burglar were the two things Neal seemed to find genuinely comforting. Well, that and snuggling up against him and El when a suitable excuse could be arranged.

"You're not responsible for fixing me," said Neal. "I heal. It's what I do."

Peter sat gingerly on the bed and rested a hand on Neal's upper arm. "I don't let people suffer alone. That's not what _I_ do."

Neal closed his eyes, thankfully skipping the awful polite reply. Peter stood and poured some pineapple juice into a cup and popped in a fresh straw. Neal wasn't eating or drinking much, because it hurt, and using the bathroom hurt. But El had discovered that he loved pineapple juice too much to resist.

Peter pressed the cup into Neal's hand and angled the straw, and Neal gulped it down. "Want anything to eat?" asked Peter.

"No."

Peter went and got him a yogurt anyway. Fancy organic gourmet stuff, with raspberries in it. He knew for a fact Neal loved it, and that was why he'd picked it up at the store.

"Here," said Peter, trying to hand him the open container and a spoon.

Neal shook his head.

Peter sighed, and scooped some out, and held the spoon in front of Neal's lips. "Come on," he said softly.

Neal ate it, with no pleasure.

Peter put another spoonful in front of him, and once again had to urge him. "It'll make you feel better, to eat. Come on, take it."

Once again, Neal obediently ate the stuff. But he seemed ...sad.

When Peter positioned a third spoonful, Neal looked at him.

_Please don't make me, _the sad, anxious little look said_. I'll do anything for you. I'll do anything you ask or tell me to. But please stop._

Peter sucked in a deep breath. Compliant, cooperative, submissive Neal was heartbreaking. He set the yogurt aside, and fought the urge to cry.

"I'm sorry," said Peter.

Neal's eyes had softened, and he looked quite moved by the fact that Peter had backed off.

"Neal ..." said Peter, genuinely puzzled. "You obey my orders even when they're so absurd you're the only person in the world who wouldn't just flip me off. You'll apparently even let me force-feed you yogurt.

"So why - when it comes to the big things, with consequences like death and life in prison, do you absolutely refuse to listen to me or society or anything else?"

"Brain damage doesn't affect yogurt-eating cortex?" suggested Neal.

"I'm serious."

"Erte once said he had a whim of iron," said Neal. "Perhaps he was brain-damaged too."

* * *

><p><strong>NEAL<strong>

Neal thought of his ill-fated choice to lift the jail officer's cell phone. If he hadn't done that, he probably wouldn't have been beaten, or wound up in "happy fun time land" with a selection of people willing and able to kill him. He probably would have been booked in somewhere and endured a boring and mildly unpleasant wait for Peter to track him down.

He'd known it was dumb. He'd already been punched once for merely asking a question, it wasn't like the outcome of being caught taking the phone was hard to predict.

The decision to risk being beaten senseless had hinged on, "eh, I'm bored."

It wasn't like he was a masochist who secretly enjoyed being beat up on. He found it heartbreaking and horrifying, even setting aside pain, which he was decidedly not fond of either.

Some guys in Sing Sing had deliberately provoked use of force. Usually it was defiance, refusing as a matter of principle to follow humiliating orders. Sometimes they wanted the bragging rights, or occasionally attention and sympathy. Sometimes they were hoping to win a lawsuit. Neal had never once seen the merit in any of those things. He'd never been beaten in Sing Sing. He'd always wanted to avoid conflict, and for the most part the COs had never been eager to use force on him.

No. He'd simply been bored, pissed off at having been punched for no good reason, and decided to take the damn phone. There had been no fear of getting caught, even though he knew it would end painfully and violently for him if he was.

That probably wasn't normal.

He closed his eyes and heard himself screaming with the primal horror and terror of an animal being maimed, and he started throwing up. The nightmares were starting.

* * *

><p><strong>PETER<strong>

Neal let out a low, miserable cry, and started retching. Peter managed to get a bowl in place before he threw up, and placed a steadying hand on his back. Throwing up hurt, and Neal cried out again.

When it was over, he managed to coax Neal into gulping down some water, and put his hand on Neal's back again. His friend was trembling, and his eyes were wide in distress, his breathing pained and uneven. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"We need to get you to a doctor?" asked Peter.

Neal shook his head, hiding his face.

"You sure, Mr. Of Course I Haven't Been Stabbed?"

"It's psychological, okay?" muttered Neal with a sort of ashamed anger.

"Oh." Neal was lying on his side, angled forward so he was nearly on his stomach, but not quite.

Peter sought out the tight, hot ridges of strained muscles in Neal's lower neck and down his shoulders and back, the result of having his cuffed arms wrenched. He'd discovered the day before that they were causing Neal considerable pain, and that ice and gentle massage and tiger balm soothed him so much, Peter half expected him to start purring. He rubbed slowly, with light pressure, until Neal's breathing evened out again.

"Neal - I know you're _going_ to be okay. But you aren't, not right now. I get that you've had to endure ...so much, on your own. If there is _anything_ I can do to comfort you or make this easier, tell me."

Neal was silent.

"Please."

When he finally did reply, Neal sounded almost timid. "Just - talk? Read or something?"

"You saying I have a soothing voice?" Peter had to smile. Most of the time when he talked, people gave him the look of, _oh dear lord, shut up now before you dig any deeper_. Including Neal. But Neal seemed to get him, get that what came out of his mouth sometimes didn't read right.

"Don't let it go to your head," said Neal weakly.

So Peter read to him, and it did seem to soothe something in Neal, who relaxed and closed his eyes, and started to breathe more easily.

"Talk to me?" asked Peter after a bit.

"Mm okay," muttered Neal.

"Yeah, you're the picture of okay," said Peter. "Under 'okay' in the dictionary, there's a gif of you throwing up and screaming and shaking."

That incited a low chuckle. "What sort of perverted dictionary do you own?" asked Neal.

"The same as you, apparently. Talk."

"Listen - healing emotionally isn't much different from healing physically," said Neal. "Everything hurts for a while, then you get over it. That's all."

Peter pointed to the collection of orange bottles living on the nightstand. "Half of those are to keep you from hurting too bad while you recover. I don't see a damn thing there for psychological pain, an' that's not fair. Because you'll get over it doesn't mean you can't use some help getting through the rough parts."

"How - do you - make your mind work right again after you've had to bear something unbearable? It felt like they were killing me, like I was dying, but I'm still alive. I can't reconcile that."

Something was pressing on Peter's heart, grinding down until he wanted to gasp. Neal had been tortured. Neal. That was what his own mind couldn't reconcile. Someone had looked into those intelligent, feeling, playful blue eyes and rubbed pepper spray into them. Someone had faced cooperative, non-violent Neal Caffrey and beaten him savagely.

"I - don't know," admitted Peter.

"It feels like nobody could knowingly do that to another human being. Ergo, I must not be really human."

"You know that's not true, right?" asked Peter.

"I wasn't a person to them. I was bubble wrap."

"Bubble wrap?"

"Makes fun noises when you pop it, and you can throw it out when you're done."

Peter shivered.

"Sadism, I can comprehend, at least. It's powered by one of man's strongest drives, for sexual arousal. Revenge, I get. But these guys ...just got mild satisfaction out of hurting hard enough to get a reaction, like it's satisfying to pop bubble wrap."

Peter recalled the images from that revolting camera footage. They were all horrible, but the ones that had hit him with the most visceral rage were the ones where Neal was restrained, and after he'd been beaten so badly he couldn't even try to escape the blows raining down on his body. In other words, when he was helpless. Utterly defenseless, and in no possible way a threat to anyone. Vulnerable to everyone.

Peter had been taught in Quantico that once you restrained someone, you took over absolute responsibility for their welfare. He'd been taught the many ways handcuffs could be used to inflict severe pain, and how to use that to bring a fighting suspect under control. But using them to hurt someone once they were restrained? If you rendered someone helpless, they became dependent on you for their safety. If you struck or otherwise used force on a handcuffed suspect, you'd better have a damn compelling reason you weren't the worst kind of bully. Once the cuffs went on, you were their protector as well as their captor.

* * *

><p><strong>NEAL<strong>

Peter knelt down beside with bed, and with a slow, cautious gentleness that was almost timid, wrapped his arms around Neal and tucked him into a soft hug, his touch light against Neal's bruised body.

"Neal - buddy. I wish you could have gone to Quantico."

"Uh - me too?" Neal was confused, and wished Peter would just hold him. He needed to hide, right now, and in the arms of his favorite FBI agent would work just fine.

"The instructors, the students...they were all just so - good," said Peter. "I wish you could've had the experience of training with those bright, idealistic, realistic, educated - people who never in a million years would beat someone, or torture and drag a handcuffed suspect, or lock a human being in a cell like the one you were in."

Neal let his head fall against Peter's arm. He wondered where all those good people had gone. Evaporated, dispersed into the world like water particles in a desert? The only one left was right here.

"This wasn't - a few bad apples," said Neal. He heard his voice shake. "This was - normal there. They - Peter, they_ kill_ people in that jail. They beat people, they torture and drag. What they did to me, they did out in the open and I just happened to survive. There's this entire jail in New York that - where it's okay if their inmates die."

He curled his legs up tighter in front of his body in horror. He was in the category of people that were disposable in that nightmare of a jail that lived in his city, his beloved New York. Mozzie. June's late husband. Alex.

"When they rubbed pepper spray into my eyes, I just - screamed and screamed, because if anyone knew how horribly that hurt, of course they'd stop." Nausea rose in his throat, and he gulped over and over again until it subsided.

"That's - a lesson I never learn." Neal shifted to increase the contact with the gentle touch that cared about him. That, he reminded himself firmly, would never, ever beat him. Or anyone.

Where there was one person who absolutely would not, there had to be more. Right?

"Not - when I was old enough to remember. But my father - beat me with a belt. I don't remember - I know it happened, because I had nightmares about it. About crying and begging him to stop. This was - that kind of hurt, when someone you want to trust to protect you is...My dad, at least in my nightmares, taught me that pleading for mercy didn't work."

"Neal." Peter sounded horrified.

"But I think - there was a part of me that still thinks people can't be that awful, not if it's truly unbearable and screaming is like - trying to show that it is. Realizing someone can _want_ you to suffer that badly -"

"Neal. That's violent crime. That's child abuse. Torture. Those are words that represent horrible crimes against - the soul of what it means to be human. What they did to you was - murder a part of your heart where trust and hope live. I know. I can't do anything, but I _know_."

Neal shivered, and thought about those words. "I don't feel like an abused child. I wasn't, really. Or a torture victim, even though -" his voice choked. "Even though you'd think by the time I'm restrained and screaming I'd admit it. Those are things that happen to other people I feel sorry for."

Peter rubbed his back softly in silence for a long time. "I guess what I'm trying to say is - you have a right to everything you're going through. If automatically recovering is what you know you do, that's amazing. But it's not normal, and it's not required of you."

The desperate tension in Neal's stomach and heart eased. _It's not required of you._

He smiled. "Sometimes it's nice to have a handler."

Peter tensed, and Neal realized that had come out wrong. "Someone in charge, to trust when he says something like that."

Peter relaxed.

"I'm just not sure about casting myself as a victim," said Neal after a bit. "The most miserable people I know do that. And then they turn into targets for every asshole who lays eyes on them."

"Not suggesting you should," said Peter. "I agree on that score. But beating a toddler with a belt_ is_ child abuse, you were just tortured by people who were supposed to care for you, an' you owe it to yourself to recognize that. Otherwise the strongest, toughest guy I know's gonna start blaming himself for suffering, or thinking he's weak."

Neal shivered. Recognizing what had happened to him was the last thing he needed. He'd been feeling better, until he went in for a shower and saw himself in the mirror for the first time since the attack. He'd been trying not to look at anything until now.

His face looked ...awful, swollen and cut and bruised. One eye was black, the other red. His stomach was crisscrossed with incisions medical and not so medical. There were bruises all over his body, but when he turned his back to the mirror and peered around to see where he'd been beaten with batons, his stomach turned.

He'd been trying so hard to minimize what had happened, to be fine, to be ready to bounce up the next day and go to the FBI and let bygones do their thing. But reality hit him so hard his legs almost gave out. A knife really had been plunged repeatedly into his stomach. Being punched, he was sort of used to. But the damage the baton had done was staggering. He really did look like he'd been hit by a car. Everything had really happened, and was worse than he remembered.

* * *

><p><strong>PETER<strong>

"Neal's having a rough day," said Peter, pinning his phone between his shoulder and ear while he rummaged through the fridge to check their stock of cream at El's request.

"Does he need to go to the doctor?" asked El, her voice suddenly sharp with worry.

"It's psychological." Peter hesitated. "Look ...can you come home early? I'm not sure what to do, I'm not that good at reassuring."

El chuckled. "Yes, you are, sweetie."

"I feel like I'm treating the poor guy like an injured dog. All I seem to do is pet him and try to feed him things, and when we talk I manage to tell him he's a torture victim and an abused child. He needs someone around who - doesn't zero in on crime and punishment with every thought."

El chuckled. "Okay. I can see that. I'll come home early, and don't make dinner. I'll bring something that _will_ make Neal eat."

Peter grimaced. "We have about two cups of cream," he said, following through on his errand. "And - don't be too sure about Neal eating. I tried getting yogurt down him this morning an' you'd think I was making him eat deviled ham."

"He'll eat," said El with absolute certainty. "Now, I have to go. Give Neal a scratch behind the ear for me."

Peter grinned. "Bye, hon. Love you."

He finished climbing the stairs just as he hung up. "El said to give you a scratch behind the ear for her."

Neal chuckled. "Not even gonna ask for backstory on that one."

"Wise man."

* * *

><p><strong>EL<strong>

Peter didn't understand that he only frightened people who didn't know him. To those who did ...herself, Neal ...he was the most reassuring person on the planet. Neal was in far better hands than Peter thought he was.

But he did have a one-track mind, and tended to keep digging down the same hole until he found something or drove everyone around him to the brink of strangling him.

Peter knew Neal liked attention, and liked to be pampered, and that was what he was doing spoon-feeding the poor guy yogurt. Because Peter lacked a certain dimension in his own mind, he didn't grasp that Neal thrived on _experiences_.

He'd loved being showered with giftly affection by Diana because it was an experience. He loved visiting art shows because he got to experience how someone else's mind worked. He loved the experiences of excitement and danger in the FBI.

Neal wouldn't find a lot to relish in being spoon-fed store-bought yogurt in the bed he'd been trapped in for days, like some hapless nursing-home patient. That was no experience worth living for.

This would be.

She opened the front door, and gestured her three helpers in. "Shhhhhh." She pressed a finger to her lips. They quickly unpacked their goods while she made normal noises in the kitchen, slipping the gelato into the freezer for later.

She stomped up the stairs, with the three men creeping along behind. Neal and Peter were there, an endearing sight with Neal's cat burglar and Peter slumped against the bed in his chair reading aloud and Neal's eyes half-closed in appreciative, drugged contentment.

El waved the first man in, and he set up a triangular, glistening, chromed Davik Leed table with one side facing the bed so that Neal could sit comfortably on the bed with a pillow at his back. Then two triangular Leed chairs for herself and Peter.

She set the orchid centerpiece she was holding in the center. It formed the lid to a sterling and crystal dessert platter holding an authentic Tiramisu from the finest pastry chef on her extensive contact list, rum and mascarpone included. The fragrant orchids and the scent of the rum danced together in an intoxicating play of sensation. A quick call to the pharmacist had assured her that small amount of alcohol wouldn't do any harm.

The second man laid down the place settings of fine Belgian linen, leaded crystal and solid sterling silver. Then he and the third sat down solid silver serving trays which had been on warmers in a vented and insulated carrier ever since leaving the kitchen. Under the lid were servings of long, thin fresh ravioli stuffed with red beets and drizzled with a sage butter sauce. The main entree was a veal and chestnut cannelloni with mushroom wine sauce, and there was a side salad of fresh raspberries, huckleberries, and marionberries drizzled with honey.

Neal's eyes brightened, and he looked almost like Satchmo presented with a steak, nose twitching in disbelief. The servers vanished, and they sat down to eat.

Peter's eyes widened when El pulled the cork on a bottle of wine and poured for all three of them. He shot a look at the row of orange bottles on the nightstand, every one of them bearing some personification of booze with a disapproving line through it. El smiled and pressed a fingernail under a tiny line of text on the bottle. _Non-alcoholic._

Neal was a changed man. He dug in with sheer bliss on his face, and ate like he hadn't eaten in days. Which, to be fair, he really hadn't. "Oh. My. God. El, I love you."

El grinned, more relieved than she would ever admit to see Neal looking alive again. He was transformed from hospital patient to Neal Caffrey, debonair charmer with an incorrigible spark in his eyes and a ready grin.

Neal took a sip of the wine, blinked, and then his nose wrinkled as his jaw dropped. "What - _is_ - that?" He shook his head as if to clear the flavor.

"Oh, control your inner wine snob." Peter downed a swig so as to be able to assure Neal that it wasn't that bad.

He almost gagged. "Oh - kay. What - ack."

Neal gave him a mocking glare. "Are you trying to poison me in my hour of weakness?"

"Oh, come on," said El, looking slightly hurt. She sipped at hers, and immediately spat it back in the glass. "What - they told me this was decent!"

Neal sampled another sip out of morbid curiosity. "I'm pretty sure a guy named Merle can do better with a toilet, some sugar packets, and a rotten orange."

El gagged and held the glass away from her body. "Are we sure this isn't his handiwork?"

"Maybe it's one of those prison craft projects," suggested Peter. "I heard this one guy in Oregon started a bread company when he got out. Stuff tasted like regurgitated bird food."

Neal grinned. "Well, to be fair, prison food tastes like regurgitated ...newspaper. _Overcooked_ regurgitated newspaper that's been sitting out a couple days. He probably thought the bread tasted awesome by comparison."

Satchmo, with ever a keen ear for rejected human food, approached with a hopeful expression. El tipped her glass in his direction for sampling. Satchmo stuffed an eager nose in the glass, then stopped, recoiled, and backed away slowly.

"You tried to feed me stuff the dog won't even touch?" said Neal, faking a plaintive whine.

"Okay, okay," said Peter. "We'll have something more your style next time. What exactly constitutes overcooking the regurgitated newspaper? Extra hour or two in the oven, or do you simmer it on the stovetop 'til it loses all its flavor?"

"I prefer mine burnt. Just leave it in the toaster until the smoke detector goes off."

"More wine?" suggested Peter, picking up a glass and wafting it in front of Neal's nose.

"Why do you do that?" complained Neal.

"Because annoyed Neal is adorable," said Peter. "You've got this cute little glare ..."

Neal gave him a wide-eyed look of indignation.

"And there it is," said Peter. "Adorable."

Neal groaned. "Sadist."

Peter's watch beeped, and he checked his wrist. "The sadist now reminds you to take your meds."

"You're a really lousy sadist."


	15. Charged Up

"They still thinking about charging 'im?" asked Peter.

Special Agent Dan Fisher, the lead investigator on the Rikers case, glanced uncomfortably around the Burke's living room, trying to see if Neal was in earshot. "Yeah. He took a hat from one of the guards?"

"Yeah ..."

"So he's up against two counts of theft now. Cell phone and the hat. Receiving and possessing contraband, assault, vandalism, conspiracy - they're making it sound like he was on a one-man crime spree."

"To which the sane and legal reaction on their part was assault, torture, reckless endangerment, and cruel and unusual punishment? I think we still got the edge," said Peter, balling his fists.

"We do," agreed Fisher.

"You still don't want to tell him?" asked Peter.

"While there's no warrant, there's no need to put him through that fear," said Fisher.

Peter frowned. "How likely is it they'll actually issue an arrest warrant?"

"Very unlikely," said Fisher. He scratched his military-cut salt-and-pepper hair. "It's a desperate negotiation tactic. If they actually took it to court, it'd introduce evidence of what they did to him and their case would go down in flames of public outrage."

"My biggest fear is nobody'll care what they did to him," said Peter. "Public already seems to 'ave okayed dragging un-charged suspects into dungeons and torturing them, so long as we're inflicting terror in name of fighting it."

Peter had to turn and walk away. Fisher was reserved, controlled, professional. A little too dispassionate for Peter's taste, but Peter could recognize his own emotional over-involvement and wanted to hide it.

Fisher followed, and with him a slight odor Peter finally identified. Had the agent been drinking? Peter poured them both coffee.

Agent Fisher accepted his without a smile or a nod of thanks. "It was the FBI that blew the whistle on Guantanamo for real. _We_ cared."

"People have died of neglect and mistreatment in Rikers before, and - I think I read a newspaper article and that was it."

Fischer looked at Peter with a frighteningly cool sort of honesty, fiddling with his glasses. "He's not a homeless black man with a mental illness, Middle Eastern, or a pregnant prostitute. He's a sexy, smart white guy with a nonviolent record. The public will back him."

Peter turned away. He wasn't convinced that was the case. Or that this agent particularly cared about Neal. "You gonna be able to do anything, Fisher?"

Fisher planted his fists on his hips, and shifted to a wide stance. "You know the job, Burke. We collect evidence and make arrests. What judges and city administrators do is out of my hands. I'll never be able to make Caffrey whole."

Fisher was tough and he was cynical, two inevitable by-products of working violent crimes. But his humanity was still there, and it was hurting.

"We can do more than collect evidence and make arrests," said Peter. "We can set an example of how to do law enforcement right. We can show the victims, by our handling of the case, that they're valued by society."

Thin, bright sunlight was filtering into the living room, bathing a very content Satchmo in a morning haze of light and dust particles. Peter picked up a framed photo of himself and Neal that rested on a table nearby. Side by side, arms wrapped around each other's backs, goofy grins, Peter trying to drag Neal away from the couch and Neal slapping at him. Pure joy on Neal's face.

Peter handed it to Fisher. "I promise you, he won't care who gets what jail time. He just needs to know what was done to him is unacceptable to the justice system. He's a ward of that system and at its mercy."

Fisher looked at the photo, and some of the hardness in his eyes yielded. "That is one lucky felon."

"I'm one lucky FBI agent," said Peter.

Fisher handed the photo back. "_That's_ the system he's a ward of, and_ that's_ mercy. Sure, I'll show him he's valued by society. But he's valued by a person, and that's worth a whole lot more than an abstract construct like 'society' or 'system.'"

* * *

><p><strong>PETER<strong>

Peter frowned. He'd come upstairs when he'd heard raised voices. Fisher was flat-out interrogating Neal. And Neal was acting not like a cooperative crime victim, but a suspect. Some of it was understandable. Of course Neal wasn't going to tell a Federal investigator who slipped him a cell phone, serious contraband in a prison.

Fisher gave Peter a frustrated look. "He won't talk about what happened in the yard, not even who stabbed him. It's some fucking criminal code of conduct snitch bullshit."

"It's not bullshit," said Peter. "It's a matter of life or death for Caffrey. There's a reason sometimes I turn my back and let him go through his contacts on his own. If he's working as an investigator, and doesn't snitch on any of the guys he knows or lead me to their doorstep, that's one thing. But snitching on guys like you're asking could get him murdered."

"Stay out of this," muttered Fisher.

Peter stepped back and leaned on the doorjamb, watching the train wreck itself. Neal was being less forthcoming than a Russian spy about the entire incident. Fisher, clearly unprepared to deal with an uncooperative victim, lost his cool and started nearly yelling at a man lying in bed recovering from near-fatal injuries.

Fisher lunged forward in unthinking frustration. "Damn it! I'm fighting for you, you little shit." He clenched his fists, and yelled. "I'm trying to help you!"

Neal flinched away, curled his knees in front of his stomach, and hid his face in folded arms. Then he simply froze and waited to be beaten. Peter stopped his furious charge at Fisher when he saw the agent's face. It was pale, and filled with guilt.

Fisher dropped to his knees beside the bed. "Hey. Hey. I'm sorry. I got mad. That doesn't mean I'd ever hurt you. Ever."

Neal didn't respond, and Fisher gave him a soft touch on the arm. Peter frowned. Fisher's hand was shaking, and his breathing was shallow and rapid, almost as though he were having a panic attack. This was a side of the controlled agent that Peter never would have guessed at. He'd come completely undone at the sight of Neal's fear.

"I'm furious," said Fisher. "I'm so fucking furious at the people who did this to you, and the people protecting them, and the people who don't care, that I can't even see straight."

Neal started breathing again, and after a few moments, looked at Fisher. "I'm - I really, truly don't want to be difficult. I appreciate you. People like you make the human race worth being part of."

"But?" asked the agent.

"I have to live in the same world where this happened to me. Any day, I could wake up and be sent back to prison. I could end up in Riker's again. I can't afford to piss off inmates or prison guards, not if I want to survive."

Fisher frowned. "Then why the hell'd you take the cell phone?"

"I'm either brain-damaged, or a real moron."

"Okayyyyy," said Fisher. "I'm gonna skip right on over that one. I'm not asking you to be a snitch. We know who stabbed you, it's on tape. I want you to help me take down corrections officers who brutalized you."

Neal let out a low chuckle. "Spoken like a man who's never been to prison."

Fisher pushed his glasses hard against the bones of his nose. He was still kneeling by the bed. "The hell's that mean?"

There was dark humor in Neal's expression. "If those COs end up in state prison ...where does New York send its violent criminals again? Sing Sing. Now, if you were possibly gonna be thrown behind bars with the men who beat the hell out of you, would you want them harboring a grudge or not?"

Fisher's jaw went slack. He hadn't thought of that. "Okay, just give me background. That fight - when the inmates were laying into each other and getting taken down by the guards, it's really hard to tell on lousy footage who the aggressors are."

"The men in that brawl saved my life. I will not, in any way, even accidentally, aid in their prosecution." Neal's passion surprised Peter.

Fisher tried another tack. "You don't lay the groundwork now in criminal proceedings, it'll be a lot tougher to prevail in your civil case against the city."

Neal didn't even blink. "I'm not suing."

"The fuck?" Fisher stared at him, and so did Peter. "Listen, dude. There's frivolous suits, and then there's - you. You're the guy the phrase 'multi-million-dollar settlement' was invented for. This city deserves to get taken to the cleaners so hard they shit laundry detergent for the next decade."

Neal grinned. "I agree. But we don't always get what we deserve, and that cuts both ways."

Peter had been trying to stay out of the way of Fisher's questioning. But he couldn't remain silent for this. "Neal, you need to sue. It's fear of having to pay out lawsuits that changes policy."

Neal shook his head. "Any day, I could wake up and be sent back to Sing Sing. Would you want to go back in as the guy suing a jail? In order for someone in law enforcement to like you, they have to feel safe around you. And let me tell you, they don't feel safe around lawsuits."

Fisher stood, his fists clenching and unclenching. He removed his glasses, put them on his head, then put them on again. "You telling me they'd abuse you too?"

"No," said Neal, shaking his head and following Fisher's movements with fascination. Then he looked at Peter, addressing him more than the other agent. "But it's - not just a matter of how I'm treated. I- kind of cherish the affection and trust of those guys. It was hard to win, and it's sincere. When you're locked up at the mercy of other people, you'd be amazed how much it means, having them come to care about you."

Fisher gave a defeated sigh. "Okay. But I'm still gonna fight for you. I hope that's all right."

Neal looked at Fisher with aching sadness. "I'm out, getting professional medical treatment, in the hands of people who care about me. I promise you - guys who saved my life were beaten, abused, and are probably still being punished. I'm guessing you're not fighting for them, because I'm guessing these are violent men who 'deserve' it."

Fisher sat heavily in the chair beside the bed, yanked off his glasses, and studied them. "You're right. They were abused, initially denied treatment, and several of the guys in that fight, including the one who tried to murder you, are in solitary. But I can promise you I've talked to every man there, at length, I am building a case against their abusers, and they are currently being treated fairly and humanely. Quite a few of them have asked about you, and been relieved to hear we got you out."

* * *

><p><strong>NEAL<strong>

Neal looked directly at Fisher and swallowed hard. Weird guy. Had functioning alcoholic written all over him. Cold. Adopting the affectations of both academia and military to hold humanity at bay. But when he'd frightened Neal, Neal's fear had terrified him.

"They're charging me, aren't they."

Fisher's uneasy glance away betrayed him. He knew it, and cleared his throat, speaking with reluctance. "There's a lot of posturing going on. Charging you is ...one threat that's been made."

Neal wasn't at all shocked, just a little sickened. This had been feeling like the beginning of the end ever since he'd crawled into El's arms and sobbed. Since he'd fallen asleep nestled between the Burkes in comfort and love and safety. The ability to do that had been one of those things that were so precious, they were beyond too good to be true. They were torturous illusions courtesy of a world that loved showing him how wonderful life could be, then smashing those wonders to bits.

Mozzie would be happy, at least. Mozzie, who always wanted to run. Who always, though he was reluctant to admit it, wanted Neal to himself.

Mozzie, who wouldn't be able to comprehend just how much of Neal's heart and soul were going to miss Peter and El and the FBI and New York. Who couldn't understand that when one loved rarely, one treasured that love beyond all measure.

Moz had been happy in their tropical paradise. To Neal, it had been a consolation prize. Here, have a mansion and a beach and a beautiful woman to chase, and try to stop missing the part of your soul you left behind in New York.

At least then he'd run at Peter's command. This time, Peter had already literally begged him not to run.

This was going to hurt.


	16. Restraint, Part 1

**NEAL**

Neal took the cat burglar. It was sentimental and it would slow him down, but he took it. And the framed photo of him and Peter from the living room. They were happy in it, and it was the sweet, playful version of Peter that he loved and wanted to remember. On the island, he'd wished intensely that he had a memento to a person and a friendship he never wanted to say goodbye to in his heart.

He waited until Peter was in the bathroom, slipped downstairs, and through pouring rain into Mozzie's waiting taxi. Before they entered the freeway system, he cut the anklet and threw it out the window.

And got cut off by what looked suspiciously like Peter's car. It forced the cab to the side of the road, stopped, and Peter jumped out. They hadn't been followed. They'd both been watching for a tail the whole time. What the ...

Neal was still staring as Peter yanked the passenger side door open. "Unbuckle your seat belt."

Peter's voice made him wince. This was the angry, powerful, downright scary FBI agent who took down world-renowned criminals and made them confess by looking across a table and telling them to. This was the Peter who had the physical strength and training to throw him around like a cat playing with a mouse.

He grabbed Neal by the back of his shirt collar, and dragged him out of the car into the rain. Neal staggered, dazed by the speed and force of it. "Damn it, Neal! You're a coward. You know what? You're a damn coward."

Neal was, indeed, cowering. Just a little. He hoped it was only a little, because if he were a dog, he'd have his tail tucked between his legs. "How did you -"

"Put a tracking chip in your shoe." Peter shoved Neal away with an easy flick of his arm, and pulled out his handcuffs. "Wrists. Now." His voice was thick and hard and cracking at the edges.

This was fury, and heartbreak, and betrayal, all the things he'd never, ever wanted to see on Peter's face. Peter looked like he either wanted to beat Neal senseless or cry. Neal wanted to cringe into a corner and vanish.

He'd done it. There was no real response he could offer but hold out his wrists and let his best friend cuff him, and when Peter took his first step forward, Neal's stomach flipped upside down and his legs went weak. He hadn't known it was even _possible_ to dread something this much. And he'd known some fairly serious dread.

So this was the end. Dragged off to jail by Peter, who was clearly furious with him. It had never been an unlikely outcome of this odd partnership, not the dragged off to jail part. But he'd always envisioned parting as friends, being able to hug his handler and thank him for the best years of his life.

Going back to prison was a bearable outcome he could make himself accept. Going back to prison without his friendship with Peter...

"I'll always be your friend," said Neal, hating the broken waver in his voice, hating himself. "If you can ever forgive me, I'll be there waiting for you."

Peter grabbed his right wrist and yanked him forward, moving in lightning-fast with the first cuff. Peter's iron grip jerking his tender, cut and bruised wrist sent hot, throbbing pain up his entire arm. The cold metal and sound of steel handcuffs made terror blank out all rationality. The images from Rikers flashed from memory to reality. Neal howled in an unholy combination of pain and fear and kicked and wrenched away. His attacker had Peter's face, and he'd just resisted arrest, and _oh shit_.

Neal pressed his body against the cab, heart pounding, as far away from Peter as he could get. Peter hadn't cuffed him, Neal realized a second later. He'd let go. He was standing with a stricken look on his face, horrified that he'd hurt Neal in anger.

It took all the will and self-control he had, but Neal managed to turn away from the car back towards the furious FBI agent and stand there, his hands shaking, his pulse audible in his ears, unable to look at Peter. Rain was soaking his shirt, and running from his hair down his face.

**PETER**

**"**Put out your hands. I have to do this." As furious as he was, Peter couldn't stop the heartbreak from choking his voice as he fumbled with the handcuffs.

Neal raised his chin, extended his wrists towards Peter, and looked away, eyes narrowed against a particularly nasty downpour. Peter's hands were shaking too. He wanted to _kill_ Neal. He wanted to throw him against that wall and choke him to death. But he could barely summon the coordination to lock steel cuffs around the wrists of someone standing there quietly ready to be punished. He'd blame the cold, but he knew better.

Peter didn't want to do this, at all. But he had to. He'd taken an oath to uphold the constitution and serve the law, and he'd meant every word. He couldn't stop the sinking, tight, desolate feeling in his stomach, watching Neal standing there with his wrists out, raw hurt and horror filling his eyes. The courage it must take for Neal to be standing there waiting to be cuffed wrenched him just to think about.

Neal recovered and looked back, watching, bracing himself as Peter moved in with the cuffs. "I didn't want to run," he said, gulping.

It wasn't the first time he'd had to arrest Neal. Wasn't the first time it'd moved him beyond belief to have someone so capable stand there in surrender and trust. It sent such a clear, gentle message. _I will always surrender to you. Even if it effectively means the end of my life._

And that was what broke him, broke the tough FBI agent. Suspects fought. Hated. Cried.

Neal put his life in Peter's hands.

Peter took Neal's right hand carefully, softly, in his and turned it until he could see exactly what he was doing, then far more gently pressed the cuff against his arm well above the bandaged wounds he'd thoughtlessly grabbed.

Neal, impeccably cooperative Neal, yelped in primal terror and jerked away with animal strength.

"I'm sorry!" yelped Neal in the same second. He was dripping wet, shivering, and plastered up against the side of the car like maybe he could melt through it.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that." Neal sounded terrified, cowed, and completely miserable.

Peter sighed, some of the anger melting. This was completely unlike tough, cocky, compliant Neal. It was uncontrollable trauma. If he was scarred so badly he couldn't even let Peter cuff him, he was scared enough to run against all logic or trust or loyalty.

"I'm sorry," repeated Neal, even more frightened at Peter's silence.

Peter grabbed a fistful of his shirt again and hauled him towards his car. "Sit. Hands on the dash. If you move before I get in the car, so help me -"

"I won't," said Neal, clearly not wanting to hear the end of that sentence. "I won't move."

Neal didn't. Peter watched closely out of the corner of his vision while he glared at Mozzie behind the wheel of the cab. "You have his meds?" he asked, voice sharp and curt.

Mozzie glared back with true loathing and pointed at the back seat. There was a plastic bag with Neal's medications. And the cat burglar. And resting on its front paws under its nose, the framed photograph of himself and Neal that he'd shown Fisher. These were the things Neal deemed precious enough to be taken with him to a new life.

Peter picked them up and gulped, heartsick. He'd been planning to take Neal back to prison if he ran. It was safer and easier than the alternative. If Neal was cold enough to run, Peter would be cold enough to put him in prison. Give him another chance when the whole NYPD fiasco blew over.

There was too much love in the way those two simple items were positioned on the seat. This hadn't been a cold act, but probably a bitterly painful one.

Peter got in the car and drove through the rain, not giving Neal permission to move his hands from the dash. Neal didn't budge, or look at him. Peter located the abandoned anklet and picked it up from the roadside. It was an expensive bit of technology, and could easily be repaired.

They were halfway home when Neal spoke, at about half his normal volume. "Peter?"

Peter ignored him.

Neal tried again a moment later, quiet and timid. "Peter? This hurts. Because of my - injuries."

"Put your damn hands down, then," snapped Peter.

Peter was hurt. And as conscious as he was of it, he simply couldn't muster Neal's ability to avoid turning hurt into anger. After everything. Every moment of understanding and trust and caring. After Peter having been the one to keep Neal out of prison when his anklet failed again, despite Neal's willingness to go in.

With all of the blindingly dumb risks Neal was willing to take with his life and future on a whim, Neal couldn't trust Peter and the FBI to have his back?

**NEAL**

Neal winced at the anger in Peter's voice, and left his hands where they were. Peter glanced sideways at him. "Neal, I'm furious. But there is no part of me that wants you in pain. Put your hands down."

Neal lowered his head and put his hands in his lap. If it didn't hurt so badly, he would have left them there. There _was_ a part of Peter that wanted him in pain. There was a part of Peter that wanted to beat the hell out of him. He was merely a good enough man not to act on it.

He looked out the window, his heart pounding. This was the road to Sing Sing. When he'd escaped to go after Kate, they'd thrown him in solitary for three weeks after his return, and that had been an extraordinarily lenient reaction. It had nearly broken him.

What the hell would they do to him this time?

They made a turn, and Neal realized they were going in the wrong direction. And that it had also been the road to the Burke's house.

Peter was taking him home. He bit his lip to chase away the surge of emotion. He wanted to turn around and hug his handler.

**PETER**

He helped Neal up the stairs, neither of them saying a word. But Peter could feel from the way Neal's body quavered how much it hurt. He'd run while still virtually crippled, that was how scared he'd been. He'd run in nothing but a t-shirt and pants, and was soaking wet and cold.

Peter sat Neal on the bed and faced him. "I'm gonna go make some calls. I'll be outside the door. You move one foot off this bed, I'm taking you to prison. You so much as breathe or blink wrong and make me think you're gonna run, I'm taking you to prison."

He slammed the door shut and called Hughes. It was time for a plan.

* * *

><p><strong>PETER<strong>

Peter shivered. It was partly cold, his wet hair and clothing chilling him. But mostly the situation Neal was in. Even Hughes was worried enough to see past the attempted escape, to forgive it as the act of a justifiably terrified man. He'd made it clear that the FBI would back Neal as emphatically as any agent, and that he would approve the expense of any resources Peter asked for. But there was no magic wand to be waved that would end this.

He dialed the US Marshal.

"Oh, damn," said Wills. "That poor kid." He sounded sincerely stricken. "Okay - yeah, we could get him into protective custody out of state. And he'd be treated just fine. But here's the thing. He'd be just another prisoner. Nobody's gonna particularly care about him, or know what he's been through."

"Okay," said Peter. "Then I need to put Caffrey under additional security in case he tries to run again."

"He still staying upstairs at your place?"

"Yep."

Wills thought for a minute. "Okay, we put his GPS anklet back on. Then we use one of the old house arrest setups to alarm if he tries to leave the house. If you're there all the time, that should work."

Peter nodded. "I know compliance monitoring and prisoner transport are two separate units, but I'm hoping to get a team that can do both, under your command, outside my house 24/7."

"If my boss approves the resources, sure," said Wills. "I take it you want us ready to snatch him from the clutches of the NYPD?"

"They show up with a warrant, your guys swoop in and exert Federal authority," confirmed Peter. "Caffrey's in your custody, a ward of the prison, and you get him the hell to Sing Sing before anyone can intercede."

Wills chuckled. "Will do."

Peter hesitated, then just went for it. "They need to not underestimate his ability to escape. But - he's still beyond sore. I'd hate to think of him being driven all the way there in some sort of metal cage in the back of a van. Can we -"

"I saw the man in Rikers, Burke," said Wills, cutting him off. "We'll make sure he has a comfortable trip, and we'll be patient with him if he's scared. You should make sure we have his meds, so he doesn't wind up off schedule if he needs them on the way in."

Peter's gut eased. He had allies, caring and intelligent ones. "Thank you."

When he hung up, he finally looked El in the eyes for the first time. They were pale. Sober. Shaken. There was no judgement, just the chilled shock of gazing into the abyss.

"He's _afraid_ of you," said El.

"You're - are you afraid of me?"

"No - no, but ..." El stared at him. "This man sobbed in my arms. I slept in bed, holding him while he clung to you like you were the life raft he'd been looking for all his life. And I see this. Part of being a woman is being vulnerable. And part of that is seeing a man's actions through the lens of what he'd do to you under the wrong conditions. Maybe I am scared."

"Hon - he broke the law and betrayed us. Yeah, I'm gonna let him know I'm pissed."

"He's - why is he _afraid_ of you?"

"Do you think I'm being needlessly harsh?"

El shook her head. "It's - that you can do this. Automatically. As part of your job. You really - do arrest people, and put them in jail. For real."

"Yeah. Ask Neal," said Peter.

"My God," said El. "The man served four years in prison, comes out, and fights like hell to earn your respect and friendship? The man who sent him there? Now he was nearly murdered, and you're willing to send him into another of those places without blinking. Watching this ...I never saw in person how serious it all is."

Peter took both of her hands gently in his. "Neal is an exceptional man. It's why he's here, with us. You want to know who I'm usually arresting? Think the Kellers of the world, not the Neals."

She looked him directly in the eyes. "I know. I'm not judging you. Or your job."

He stroked her hands. "Don't simplify Neal. He is every bit as vulnerable and loving and sweet as you've seen this week. He's also one of the toughest, bravest, smartest men I've ever met. He's also the guy who just decided to abandon us without saying goodbye, and an unreformed con artist and thief."

"If I were afraid staying with my friends meant a repeat of being beaten, stabbed, and tortured while I was still recovering from the first time, I'd run away too," said El.

Peter tried to hug her, but she pulled away and glared. "You're dripping wet, Clueless. So's Neal, who's sitting on the foot of the bed refusing to dry himself off or change because you ordered him to stay there."

Peter sighed. "We got a change of clothes for him?"

"With the towels I handed him."

Peter opened the door. Neal was sitting where Peter had left him on the bed, wet hair plastered to the sides of his bruised face. "You can drop the ultra-obedient routine. It doesn't work for master criminals who just pulled an escape attempt."

He picked up the towels and clothing and put them in Neal's lap. Neal didn't speak. He was shivering, his teeth chattering, head down. Peter frowned. This wasn't a routine to make El feel sorry for him.

Peter felt his own hair. Just as wet as Neal's, and he wasn't particularly cold. But he'd been moving around, and wasn't scared or critically injured. "Neal?"

Peter did shiver, himself, now. "El!"

She dashed into the room.

"Help me get Neal out of these clothes and dried off."

**NEAL**

Neal was frozen, and nauseated. He was scared, and sickened by Peter's anger. He was trapped, and didn't have any viable plan, and he could feel the drugs he was on slowing his mind. Dazing him, rendering him some slower, sleepier, less intelligent version of himself. He felt helpless, and that was an unfamiliar and horrifying thing. He'd been, technically, helpless many times. But rarely felt it, or was unable to see a way forward and out.

And he was in too much pain to use the towel Peter put in his lap. He was good at shutting down and tuning things out when they were too much to handle, and he was barely aware of El unbuttoning his shirt and trying to ease it off. He moaned in pain but didn't protest when Peter gently moved his arm so El could get it off.

"Oh, damn," said Peter. Not in an angry way, in a quiet and horrified way. He took Neal's hand and turned it over gently. "Your wrist's bleeding through the bandage. Where I grabbed you."

Neal laughed, a welcome feeling. He had pictures in his head, not haunting but amusing him. They were of concrete and steel and blood, his blood. For all that Peter had seen that cell he was in, Neal was pretty sure he hadn't actually seen it. He'd written it off as a nightmare from another dimension. So that now, he thought it was a big deal that Neal's wrist was bleeding a little.

They took his shoes and socks off, and Peter pressed a set of dry boxers and pajama bottoms into his hands. "Neal, we're gonna step out for a minute."

_Huh?_ He looked after them and at the closed door. _Oh. Privacy. Right._ He almost snickered to himself. _Try that concept on after spending four years in a maximum security prison._

He fumbled through changing. Peter made him take a dose of pain meds, and El wrapped a soft robe around his shoulders and started rubbing his hair with a towel. It felt like his hair was being pulled out with sandpaper, and he let out a squeak of startled pain, and ducked.

Peter instantly blocked El's arm, figuring it out before Neal. "They yanked him around and dragged him by the hair. He's gotta still be pretty sore."

El sat down at his side and held him in a soft hug while Peter unwrapped the bandage on his wrist. Neal braved a glance. The bruises were starting to fade slightly, and where Peter had grabbed him the healing cut was bleeding again. But it didn't look all that bad.

Peter applied antibiotic ointment so gently Neal barely felt it, and put nonstick gauze pads over the wound and wrapped it. A shiver of horror went through Neal's stomach. "You're not using gloves."

All of Neal's fear of Peter, his anger, his humiliation vanished in that second and was replaced with worry. "My blood test results aren't back yet, I could have been infected with HIV. Peter -"

Peter heard his desperate worry, and held up his own hand. "I didn't get your blood on me, and I don't have any broken skin. And you are not going to get HIV, and neither am I."

Neal found himself frantically hugging Peter. He couldn't lose him. He couldn't. "Don't risk it. Please, don't risk it."

Peter hugged him back, softly. "I am so, so sorry, Neal. I injured you. I hurt you in anger, I betrayed your trust, and I'm sorry."

Peter was warm. And Neal was cold, and the way he and El were holding him was going to save his soul. "_I'm_ sorry," said Neal.

Peter let go and picked up the towel, pressing it against his hair, rubbing with gentle pressure. He'd seen the video, cared, and knew how not to remind him of what had happened. It actually felt blissfully comforting, and Neal closed his eyes. It was going to be okay. Because of these bafflingly wonderful people, it was going to be okay.


	17. Restraint, Part 2

**Disturbing content warning:** Nothing awful happens to Neal in this chapter, but he shares some very brain-bleach-worthy (and unfortunately snatched from reality) fears with Peter. I may have gone a bit hurt/comfort on the readers here, not just Neal. If you don't want to read, stop after Neal starts sobbing. Then scroll down a bit for the cuddly fluff which you decidedly don't want to skip.

**PETER**

Gary Wills came by the house with a case full of equipment. He installed the base unit and transmitters for house-arrest monitoring, and gave Peter the phone numbers for the team outside, and a radio to maintain contact with in case of an incident.

Gary and Neal greeted each other with smiles that were the uncertain beginnings of a friendship. He replaced a very silent Neal Caffrey's cut-off anklet on his left ankle, then pulled out the second one from an electronics case.

"You've got to be kidding me," said Neal, turning a bit pale. His blue eyes were in full-on innocent mode, baffled and pleading.

"It's this or prison," said Peter. "I have zero trust in you not to run right now."

Neal seemed to shrink, flattening his body against the bed as he extended his right ankle towards the Marshal. He looked truly miserable.

Wills buckled the second anklet on. It was less sophisticated technology, and bulky and ugly, more like Neal's original tracker. "This is basically a house arrest setup," said Wills. "Lower tech, but it'll let Burke keep a closer eye on you. If you exit the bedroom, it'll sound an alert. If you cut this, or exit the house, it'll sound enough audible alarms to wake the neighborhood."

"Peachy," muttered Neal.

Wills charged ahead with the tight look of someone who didn't care for the job he had to do. "There's a team of armed Marshals outside with a canine unit, so don't think you can disable Peter here and get a head start."

Neal stared at Peter. _You really think I'd do that?_

Peter looked back, cold and hard. _Your mind was already going there. Drug us and bolt. I'm not a moron._

"You were planning to run," said Peter. "You don't like this, too bad. Consider it a disciplinary action."

Neal glared back at Peter. "Your lead investigator's an emotionally crippled functioning alcoholic. He couldn't scream, 'my negligence got people killed and now I'm scarred for life' any louder if he had a megaphone. He's not working this case, he's working the one he screwed up years ago."

Peter and Wills exchanged uneasy glances. Thing was, Peter had to think Neal was probably right. Fisher was intelligent, competent, well respected, and possibly just a little completely unbalanced.

"Now you're asking me, on the basis of his skills, to stick around waiting to be arrested on a warrant issued out of spite and be returned to the place I was mistreated so badly I almost died? Tell me how that's an act of rationality, let alone caring," challenged Neal.

Wills winced. "First, no warrant has been issued. Second, our team is out there to intervene if necessary to prevent you from being taken back there. Third, everyone involved in this cares a great deal. Reese Hughes authorized the FBI to pay for all this, and we're talking thousands of dollars a day, just so you don't have to go back to the prison you're actually supposed to be in right now. And this is after you cut your anklet and tried to escape custody, which nobody seems inclined to charge you with, by the way."

Neal reached out, took Gary Wills's hand in his, and squeezed it. "Thank you. You've been wonderful, from the first minute we met. And I don't take it for granted."

Wills squeezed back with a kindhearted smile. "Never thought you did. We'll get you through this."

Neal refocused on Peter, getting back to the protest at hand. "Believe me, if I knew you were in danger of, say, the CIA showing up and dragging you off to Gitmo, I wouldn't force you to stick around and see. I'd do everything in my power including kidnapping you myself to be sure that you never, ever had to risk going through that."

"That's not the situation," said Peter. "This is: If you run, you will be caught, and you will go to a high security prison, probably in solitary confinement, for decades. You will suffer prolonged mental and emotional torture. Given the stakes, I'd send you back to prison right now to prevent that from being a possibility. So you decide. Back to prison now until this is all over, which does have the advantage that you wouldn't be able to be sent to Rikers. Or, take the risk of remaining on the outside, but you do it with me."

Neal took a long time to answer, and when he did, it was with an almost embarrassed demeanor. "I'm not usually afraid of prison. And I'll get over it. I think once I heal physically ...but right now, I - kind of am. A lot."

Wills reached out and gently touched Neal's hand with his. "And you've got some very dedicated people going to a great deal of trouble and expense to spare you that. Trust this agent, and if we have to take you back to prison, try to face it with faith. It might end up being a reassuring experience, to be reminded firsthand that most humans aren't evil. Even in a prison."

Neal glanced between the two of them, the desperate tension behind his eyes eased by intense affection and gratitude. "Thank you. I know what you're doing for me, and I know I don't deserve it after what I did today. _This_ is a reassuring experience."

* * *

><p>Peter went out to the car and retrieved the framed photo and the cat burglar after Wills left. He paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs, and smoothed the slightly dampened fur on its head. Neal cherished this thing. And all that the photograph represented.<p>

There had been a time when Neal would have left them behind without hesitation. A time when Neal didn't allow himself to cherish anything, because he was certain he would have to leave it behind or have it ripped from him. As much as today had been Neal as usual, Neal unreformed, it was actually enormous progress.

He opened the guest room door softly. Neal's eyes went to what Peter was holding, but his expression revealed nothing. Peter set the cat burglar down by Neal's side, and handed him the photograph. "You keep this. We'll print another copy."

Neal sat the photo on the night stand and hesitantly tucked the cat against his side, like he was afraid Peter would rip it from him if he showed he cared about it. He glanced at Peter out of the corner of his eyes, gauging the reaction. Wondering if he could really trust.

"It's because you cared enough to take these that you're not in prison tonight," said Peter. "I was gonna do it, 'til I saw these in the cab."

"Peter - thanks for everything." Neal's voice was thick, and his eyes flooded with tears when their eyes met. He turned away, and Peter felt like he'd been punched in the gut as his adrenaline spiked.

Neal was_ still_ planning to run. Maybe not this second, but from the FBI, from prison, from a courthouse ... This was that day at the airstrip all over again, only fueled this time by pain and fear instead of Kate's siren lure. And if Peter didn't stop him, Neal would run right into the flames.

Peter grabbed him. "No. No. You are _not_ bailing."

Neal was pale. "Peter, it's never going to end. Justice for me was over the second I was convicted. I never used to be afraid of going back to Sing Sing, now - look what happened when you tried to cuff me. And that was with me trying - _really_ trying - to cooperate."

"No. Normal life was over for you when you broke the law, repeatedly and on a massive scale. I'm sorry, Neal, but _justice_ for all the people you directly and indirectly victimized was your imprisonment."

"I know that, jackass. Think back and count the times I've whined about going to prison," snapped Neal. "But I was under the mistaken impression it would somehow be over when I got out. Silly me."

Peter realized Neal's hands were shaking. He'd trapped Neal, and Neal was both hurt and frightened by being unable to run. Peter knelt by the bed. "Hey."

Neal wouldn't look at him.

"Listen. I _sent_ you on the run when it was that or let Kramer get his claws in you. I flew across the world to stand at your side when I realized you were in danger from Collins. You're in too much fear to trust or think clearly, so I'm preventing you from doing something you'd regret for the rest of your life."

Neal's face was tight. "What exactly are you gonna do when a NYPD SWAT team breaks down your door, Peter? Shoot them?"

"I'm an FBI agent, and one involved in the case, at that. Even they wouldn't take it that far."

Neal was silent for a long time, quietly breaking down. He could hardly talk when he finally braved Peter again. "This hurts. It meant a lot to me - sending me into the hospital off anklet, and - taking the watch off that night. _Two_ anklets and an armed canine team?"

"I know," said Peter softly. Seeing Neal flatten himself and almost cringe when Wills had put the second anklet on had been wrenching. "I'm sorry. But tell me honestly it's overkill."

Neal was silent, then looked away and let out a soft sound of assent that was almost a whimper.

"When I told Wills the other night that I cared about you too much to let you escape, I meant it," said Peter. "I won't let you screw up your life out of fear."

"It still hurts," said Neal quietly.

Peter rubbed his back, his fingers knowing exactly where to find the sore muscles now, and how to soothe them. "Remember the doctor saying that basically, I was your behavioral therapist?"

"Yes."

"This is one of those cases where you're going to do something impulsive that you'll regret for the rest of your life. This is one of those dumb Neal things. Let me stop you."

Neal started sobbing softly. "Neal?" asked Peter, his gut twisting. He'd never seen Neal sob, now this was twice in a week. Wasn't he getting better?

"Neal, please look at me? Please?"

Peter felt desperate. He couldn't see someone in pain without needing to relieve it, and this was his best friend in so much distress he was sobbing. Maybe if Neal looked at him, he could figure out some sort of key.

Neal's eyes were visibly darker, dark in fear and heartache. "You know the problem with good people? You don't think evil actually exists because you're not capable of it."

Peter sucked in his breath. "Neal, I'm an FBI agent. Wasn't always in White Collar, either. I know about evil."

"You didn't believe me that Kate was in trouble. Now she's dead." Tears flooded Neal's eyes and he gasped for breath. "You asked me if I'd been raped, like that's the worst thing that can happen to a person. Believe me, it's not. I just read about a prison in Florida where guards murdered an inmate by handcuffing him in a shower cell and running the water at a hundred and eighty degrees for two hours until his skin boiled off and he died. They told him to enjoy his shower and left him to die while he was pleading for mercy. Another guy got gassed to death in his cell. He died with his nose pressed against the bottom of the door, naked except for his boxers, holding his bible and screaming for help."

Neal drew in a heaving sob. "People die in cells, crying for mercy. Is it so damn selfish and awful and cowardly that I don't want that to be me? I'm begging _you_ for mercy, Peter. Let me run. I can't -"

"Hey. You wanna talk evil, you listen to me," ordered Peter. "Every time I plead with you to get out of this life, I have images worse than that in my head. Crime scene photos that've given me literal nightmares, for weeks. When I was chasing you, when I'd fallen for Neal Caffrey like every other damn person in sight, I couldn't bear the idea that it could be a mobster that took you down and not me. For every horrible, nightmarish, unconscionable crime inflicted by prison officials, there's thousands more that're done to criminals, by criminals. And they are so inhumanly cruel I'm not gonna even say."

Neal had actually stopped sobbing, and was listening. Still in tears, still in terror, but he was listening. Peter reached out and touched Neal's left cheek. Acutely aware of what he was doing, looking at Neal with the most reassuring expression he could muster, he gently wiped the tears away like he had in the cell in Rikers.

Neal let out a soft whimper but managed not to recoil, and his eyes softened.

"I was there, Neal. You think I didn't feel the horror of what they did to you?"

Neal sniffed, but didn't pull away from Peter's hand.

"Of course I'm afraid the NYPD'll arrest and murder you horribly," said Peter. "I'm afraid the mob will kidnap you and torture you to death. I'm afraid some country whose art you ripped off will send agents to dismember you and bring home pieces of you to their beloved dictator. I know all too well the evil that exists, and it rips me apart knowing what could happen to you."

Peter heard another, quieter sniff from behind him and whipped around. El was standing there, pale, with tears in her eyes. Had obviously heard the whole horrific thing.

El marched up to the bed, pulled back the covers, and got in next to Neal. She gave Peter a cool look and pointed to the spot on the other side of the bed. "You're not letting him run? Then you stay at his side and you hold him and you protect him with your life."

Peter gave Neal a questioning look. It was returned with timid, barely-daring-to-hope assent. He walked out and got his gun and spare clips out of the safe, returned and barricaded the door shut, and put them on the nightstand with his cell phone and the radio to the Marshals' van.

"Marshals know to call the second they see anyone approach the house, police or otherwise," he told them both, trying to shake the Twilight-Zone feeling out of his head. Was he seriously bracing to protect the people he loved from the _police_?

Maybe. Or more likely, from their fears, from the ghosts that haunted the innocent every time violence and cruelty came to light. No matter who the perpetrator, but even more sickening when it came from positions of trust.

He climbed into bed, and this time he didn't wait for Neal to tug him close. He pulled his still-teary, scared CI who'd become so much more against his side and held him tight. He smiled despite himself. "This is one way to keep you from running."

Neal sniffed and chuckled at the same time, wiggling into a more comfortable position. One of his anklets smacked Peter's leg, and Peter chuckled. "Sure, kick me all night with the damn things."

Neal groaned, trying to arrange his legs more gracefully. "One's not so bad. Two of them's like wearing swim fins made out of Legos to bed."

Peter patted him on the back. "Why would I not be surprised if you'd tried that?"

"What, after one of my multitudinous shark-evasion pool parties for eight-year-olds?"

Peter grinned. That was Neal, finally. "That's it. We _have_ to set up a sting involving sharks, pool parties, eight-year-olds, and Legos. And dual tracking anklets."

"Can I feed a few select people to the pool sharks?" asked Neal with dark humor.

"If they're still hungry after I'm done," said Peter. "You can go to town with the lead tracking anklets, though."

El got into the game. "Speaking of Florida, there's a company there that'll supply alligators for your children's pool party. They charge you for it."

Both Peter and Neal chortled. "If 'feeding your kids to alligators' is the best they can come up with for a birthday party, no wonder things get fucked up down there," said Peter.

Neal cleared his throat. "I don't think the guy wearing two tracking anklets and barricaded behind a door, lying in bed, clinging in terror to his arresting agent, the agent's wife, and a stuffed cat while high on an entire pharmacy gets to judge," he said dryly.

"Dunno," said Peter. "I think you judge the shark-and-alligator-evasion try-outs for eight-year-olds from here, we got a hit reality show on our hands."

"Still saner than Trump," agreed Neal, suddenly sounding very sleepy.

"Quick, talk about something else," said El. "I don't want to have nightmares."

Neal heaved a deep sigh and melted, relaxing against them both. "This is my new favorite way to be kept from running."

Peter held him a little tighter. He was starting to feel warm and relaxed, instead of chilled, tiny, and scared to death. "We should start a pilot program. Instead of going to prison, felons get cuddled by FBI agents nonstop."

He could feel Neal grin. "I think you just solved crime," said Neal. "Even the mob'd get out of the game if they thought that might be their fate one day."

"Poor Neal," sighed El. "If it's that terrible, give me back my husband."

"No," said Neal firmly. "Mine. Court-ordered cuddly FBI agent. Not giving 'im back."

El patted him on the arm. "I know the feeling."

"Are you mad at me?" Neal asked Peter after a long while. His voice sounded shaky.

"I'm - a little hurt," said Peter. "The idea that you'd abandon this friendship hurts. But I'm not mad at you for being you."

Neal twisted suddenly in Peter's arms and lunged forward, hugging him. He didn't let go, just clung to Peter un-moving, tense, his face hidden under the blankets. "I'd almost rather risk being beaten to death than - abandon this. Running would be - the most painful thing I've ever done."

Peter rested his forehead on Neal's shoulder. "I'm not gonna let you be beaten to death. And I'm not gonna let you run."

There was another long silence. Then a soft, utterly heartfelt whisper. "Thank you."


End file.
